TM  STREETS  of 
ASCALON 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


RftKt  rr— : 


J 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 


Works  of  Robert  W.  Chambers 


The  Streets 
Blue-Bird 
Japonette 
The    Adventures   of    a 

Modest  Man 
The  Danger  Mark 
Special  Messenger 
The  Firing  Line 
The  Younger  Set 
The  Fighting  Chance 
Some  Ladies  in  Haste 
The  Tree    of    Heaven 
The    Tracer    of    Lost 

Persons 
A  Young    Man    in    a 

Hurry 
Lorraine 

Maids  of  Paradise 
Ashes  of  Empire 
The  Red  Republic 
Outsiders 


of  Ascalon 

Weather 

The  Common  Law 

Ailsa  Paige 

The  Green  Mouse 

lole 

The  Reckoning 

The  Maid -at -Arms 

Cardigan 

The  Haunts  of  Men 

The  Mystery  of  Choice 

The  Cambric  Mask 

The  Maker  of  Moons 

The  King  in  Yellow 

In  Search  of  the  Un 
known 

The  Conspirators 

A  King  and  a  Few 
Dukes 

In  the  Quarter 


For  Children 

Garden-Land  Mountain-Land 

Forest-Land  Orchard-Land 

River-Land  Outdoor-Land 

Hide  and  Seek  in  Forest-Land 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK 


140 


'She  excused  the  witness  and  turned  her  back  to  the  looking-glass." 


The  STREETS 
OF  ASCALON  J8> 

Episodes  in  the   Unfinished  Career  of 
Richard  £>uarren,   Esqr.e. 


BY.   X 

ROBERT   W.    CHAMBERS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
CHARLES    DANA    GIBSON 


NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 
D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


Copyright,  1912,  by  The  International  Magazine  Company 


Published,  September,  1912 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
EULALIE   ASHMORE 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BETWEEN 
PAGES 


"She  excused  the  witness  and  turned  her  back 
to  the  looking-glass"  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

"Westguard,  colossal  in  his  armour,  gazed 
gloomily  around  at  the  gorgeous  specta 
cle"  

"Jingling,  fluttering,  gems  clashing  musically, 
the  Byzantine  dancer,  besieged  by  adorers, 
deftly  evaded  their  pressing  gallantries"  30-31 

'"To  our  new  friendship,  Monsieur  Harlequin!' 

she  said  lightly" 52-53 

"Strelsa,  propped  on  her  pillows,  was  still  in 
tent  on  her  newspapers "  60-61 

"'A  perfect  scandal,  child.     The  suppers  those 

young  men  give  there !": 78-79 

"  'Is — Mrs.  Leeds — well? '  he  ventured  at  length, 

reddening  again" 86-87 

"'I  write,'  said  Westguard,  furious,  *  because 

I  have  a  message  to  deliver —   "  .      .      .      .         98-99 

'"Never  mind  geography,  child;  tell  me  about 

the  men!'" .-      .     116-117 

vii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

BKTWEEN 

"Strelsa,  curled  up  on  a  divan  .  .  .  listened  to 

his  departure  with  quiet  satisfaction"     .     126-127 

"'Do  you  remember  our  first  toast?'  he  asked, 

smiling" 128-129 

"Once  more,  according  to  the  newspapers,  her 
engagement  to  Sir  Charles  was  expected 
to  be  announced " 172-173 

"All  stacked  up  pell-mell  in  the  back  yard  and 

regarded  in  amazement  by  the  neighbors"     178-179 

"A  fortnight  later  Strelsa  wrote  to  Quarren  for 

the  first  time  in  nearly  two  months"     .      190-191 

"'I  say,  Quarren — does  this  old  lady  hang  next 

to  the  battered  party  in  black?'"     .      .      194-195 

"'I  didn't  tell  Strelsa  that  you  were  coming,' 

she  whispered" 210-211 

"So    he    took    the    lake    path    and    presently 

rounded  a  sharp  curve" 214-215 

"'The  old  ones  are  the  best,'  she  commented"     228-229 

"Strelsa  in  the  library,  pulling  on  her  gloves, 
was  silent  witness  to  a  pantomime  unmis 
takable"  246-247 

"A  high  and  soulful  tenor  voice  was  singing 

'  Perfumes  of  Araby'" 272-273 

"She  came  about  noon — a  pale  young  girl,  very 

slim  in  her  limp  black  gown"      .      .      .     280-281 

viii 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BETWEEN 
PAGES 


Jessie  Vining 290-291 

"'In  the  evenings  sometimes  Miss  Vining  re 
mains  and  dines  with  Dankmere  and  my 
self  at  some  near  restaurant ' '  ...  302-303 

"'If  you'll  let  me,  I'll  stand  by  you,  darling'"  328-329 

"'Is  it  to  be  Sir  Charles  after  all,  darling?'  she 

asked  caressingly" 346-347 

'"And  it  is  to  be  your  last  breakfast'"     .      .  374-375 

Strelsa  Leeds     . 380-381 

"Let  him  loose,  Quarren,'   said   Sprowl"     .  416-417 

'"I    wanted    to    surprise   you,'    he    explained 

feebly" 424-425 


IX 


'Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  publish  it  not 
in  the  streets  of  Ascalon" 


THE  STREETS  OF  ASCALON 


CHAPTER    I 

IT  being  rent  day,  and  Saturday,  the  staff  of  the 
"  Irish  Legation,"  with  the  exception  of  Westguard, 
began  to  migrate  uptown  for  the  monthly  conference, 
returning  one  by  one  from  that  mysterious  financial 
jungle  popularly  known  as  "  Downtown."  As  for 
Westguard,  he  had  been  in  his  apartment  all  day  as 
usual.  He  worked  where  he  resided. 

A  little  before  five  o'clock  John  Desmond  Lacy, 
Jr.,  came  in,  went  directly  to  his  rooms  on  the  top  floor, 
fished  out  a  check-book,  and  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  had  a  pleasing  balance  at  the  bank — not  because 
he  was  likely  to  have  any  balance  either  there  or  in  his 
youthful  brain,  but  because  he  had  to  have  one  some 
where.  God  being  good  to  the  Irish  he  found  he  had 
not  overdrawn  his  account. 

Roger  O'Hara  knocked  on  his  door,  later,  and  re 
ceiving  no  response  called  out :  "  Are  you  in  there, 
Jack?" 

"  No,"  said  Lacy,  scratching  away  with  his  pen  in 
passionate  hopes  of  discovering  a  still  bigger  balance. 

"  Sportin'  your  oak,  old  Skeezicks  ? "  inquired 
O'Hara,  affectionately,  delivering  a  kick  at  the  door. 

"  Let  me  alone,  you  wild  Irishman !  "  shouted  Lacy. 
"  If  I  can't  dig  out  an  extra  hundred  somewhere  the 
State  Superintendent  is  likely  to  sport  my  oak  for 
keeps !  " 

1 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

A  big,  lumbering,  broad-shoulclered  young  fellow 
was  coming  up  the  stairs  behind  O'Hara,  a  blank  book 
and  some  papers  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  O'Hara 
nodded  to  him  and  opened  Mr.  Lacy's  door  without  fur 
ther  parleying. 

"  Here's  Westguard,  now,"  he  said ;  "  and  as  we 
can't  shoot  landlords  in  the  close  season  we'll  have 
to  make  arrangements  to  pay  for  bed  and  board, 
Jack." 

Lacy  glanced  up  from  the  sheet  of  figures  before 
him,  then  waved  his  guests  to  seats  and  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

"  Hooray,"  he  remarked  to  Westguard ;  "  I  can 
draw  you  a  check,  Karl,  and  live  to  tell  the  tale," 
And  he  rose  and  gave  his  place  at  the  desk  to  the  man 
addressed,  who  seated  himself  heavily,  as  though 
tired. 

"  Before  we  go  over  the  accounts,"  he  began,  "  I 
want  to  say  a  word  or  two — 

"  Hadn't  you  better  wait  till  Quarren  comes  in?  "  in 
terrupted  O'Hara,  smoking  and  stretching  out  his  long 
legs. 

"  No;  I  want  to  talk  to  you  two  fellows  first.  And 
I'll  tell  you  at  once  what's  the  matter:  Quarreii's  check 
came  back  marked  'no  funds.'  This  is  the  third  time; 
and  one  of  us  ought  to  talk  to  him." 

"  It's  only  a  slip,"  said  Lacy — "  it's  the  tendency 
in  him  that  considers  the  lilies  of  the  field — — " 

"  It  isn't  square,"  said  Westguard  doggedly. 

"  Nonsense,  Karl,  Rix  means  to  be  square- 


"  That's  all  right,  too,  but  he  isn't  succeeding.  It 
humiliates  me ;  it  hurts  like  hell  to  have  to  call  his  atten 
tion  to  such  oversights." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"Oh,  he's  the  gay  tra-la-la,"  said  O'Hara,  indul 
gently  ;  "  do  you  think  he  bothers  his  elegant  noddle 
about  such  trifles  as  checks?  Besides  he's  almost  as 
Irish  as  I  am — God  bless  his  mother  and  damn  all  land 
lords,  Lester  Caldera  included." 

"  What  does  Quarren  do  with  all  his  money,  then  ?  " 
mused  Lacy — "  soaking  the  public  in  Tappan-Zee 
Park  and  sitting  up  so  close  and  snug  to  the  rich  and 
great !  " 

"  It's  his  business,"  said  Westguard,  "  to  see  that 
any  check  he  draws  is  properly  covered.  Overdrafts 
may  be  funny  in  a  woman,  and  in  novels,  but  once  is 
too  often  for  any  man.  And  this  makes  three  times 
for  Rix." 

"  Ah,  thin,  lave  the  poor  la-ad  be !  ye  could-blooded 
Sassenach !  "  said  Lacy,  pretending  to  the  brogue. 
"  Phwat  the  divil ! — 'tis  the  cashier  ye  should  blame 
whin  Rix  tells  him  to  pay,  an'  he  refuses  to  pro  juice 
the  long-green  wad  !  " 

But  Westguard,  unsmiling,  consulted  his  memo 
randa,  then,  holding  up  his  sheet  of  figures : 

"  There's  a  quorum  here,"  he  said.  "  Rix  can  read 
this  over  when  he  comes  in,  if  he  likes.  Here's  the  situa 
tion."  And  he  read  off  the  items  of  liabilities  and  as 
sets,  showing  exactly,  and  to  a  penny,  how  the  house 
had  been  run  for  the  past  month. 

Everything  was  there,  rent,  servants'  wages,  re 
pairs,  provisions,  bills  for  heating  and  lighting,  extras, 
incidentals  —  all  disbursements  and  receipts ;  then, 
pausing  for  comments,  and  hearing  none,  he  closed  the 
ledger  with  a  sharp  slap. 

"  The  roof's  leakin',"  observed  O'Hara  without  par 
ticular  interest. 

3 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


"  Write  to  the  landlord,"  said  Lacy — "  the  stingy 
millionaire." 

"  He  won't  fix  it,"  returned  the  other.  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  Lester  Caldera  spendin'  a  cent  ?  " 

"  On  himself,  yes." 

"  That's  not  spendin' ;  it  all  goes  inside  or  outside 
of  him  somewhere."  He  stretched  his  legs,  crossed  them, 
sucked  on  his  empty  pipe,  and  looked  around  at  West- 
guard,  who  was  still  fussing  over  the  figures. 

"  Are  you  goin'  to  the  Wycherlys',  Karl?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"What  costume?" 

"  None  of  your  business,"  retorted  Westguard 
pleasantly. 

"  I'm  going  as  the  family  Banshee,"  observed  Lacy. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  me  screech,  Karl?  "  And,  pointing 
his  nose  skyward  and  ruffling  up  his  auburn  hair  he 
emitted  a  yell  so  unendurable  that  it  brought  West- 
guard  to  his  feet,  protesting. 

"  Shut  up !  "  he  said.  "  Do  you  want  to  have  this 
house  pinched,  you  crazy  Milesian?  " 

"  Get  out  of  my  rooms  if  you  don't  like  it,"  said 
Lacy.  "  If  I'm  going  to  a  masked  dance  as  a  Banshee 
I've  got  to  practice  screaming,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  O'Hara,  "  am  goin'  as  a  bingle." 

"What's   a  bingle?" 

"  Nobody  knows.  Neither  do  I ;  and  it's  killin'  me 
to  think  up  a  costume.  .  .  .  Dick  Quarren's  goin', 
isn't  he?" 

"  Does  he  ever  miss  anything?  "  said  Lacy. 

"  He's  missing  most  of  his  life,"  said  Westguard  so 
sharply  that  the  others  opened  their  eyes. 

A  flush  had  settled  under  Westguard's  cheek-bones ; 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

he  was  still  jotting  down  figures  with  a  flat  silver  pen 
cil,  but  presently  he  looked  up. 

"  It's  the  cold  and  uncomplimentary  truth  about 
Ricky,"  he  said.  "  That  set  he  runs  with  is  making  an 
utter  fool  of  him." 

"  That  set,"  repeated  Lacy,  grinning.  "  Why,  we 
all  have  wealthy  relatives  in  it — wealthy,  charming, 
and  respectable — h'm  !  " 

"  Which  is  why  we're  at  liberty  to  curse  it  out," 
observed  O'Hara,  complacently.  "  We  all  know  what 
it  is.  Karl  is  right.  If  a  man  is  goin'  to  make  any- 
thin'  of  himself  he  can't  run  with  that  expensive  pack. 
One  may  venture  to  visit  the  kennels  now  and  then,  and 
look  over  the  new  litters — perhaps  do  a  little  huntin' 
once  in  a  while — just  enough — so  that  the  M.  F.  H. 
recognises  your  coat  tails  when  you  come  a  cropper.. 
But  nix  for  wire  or  water !  Me  for  the  gate,  please. 
Ah,  do  you  think  a  man  can  stand  what  the  papers  call 
4  the  realm  of  society  '  very  long?  " 

"  Rix  is  doing  well." 

Westguard  said :  "  They've  gradually  been  getting 
a  strangle-hold  on  him.  Women  are  crazy  about  that 
sort  of  man — with  his  good  looks  and  good  humour  and 
his  infernally  easy  way  of  obliging  a  hundred  people 
at  once.  .  .  .  Look  back  a  few  years!  Before  he  joined 
that  whipper-snapper  junior  club  he  was  full  of  decent 
ambition,  full  of  go,  unspoiled,  fresh  from  college  and 
as  promising  a  youngster  as  anybody  ever  met.  Where 
is  his  ambition  now?  What  future  has  he? — except 
possibly  to  marry  a  million  at  forty-five  and  settle 
down  with  a  comfortable  grunt  in  the  trough.  It's 
coming,  I  tell  you.  Look  what  he  was  four  years  ago — 
a  boy  with  clear  eyes  and  a  clear  skin,  frank,  clean  set, 

5 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


clean  minded.  Look  at  him  now — sallow,  wiry,  im- 
profitably  wise,  range,  disillusioned — oh,  hell!  they've 
mauled  him  to  a  shadow  of  a  rag !  " 

Lacy  lighted  another  cigarette  and  winked  at 
O'Hara.  "Karl's  off  again,"  he  said.  "Now  we're 
going  to  get  the  Bible  and  the  Sword  for  fair !  " 

"  Doesn't  everybody  need  them  both !  "  said  West- 
guard,  smiling.  Then  his  heavy  features  altered :  "  I 
care  a  good  deal  for  Dick  Quarren,"  he  said.  "  That's 
why  his  loose  and  careless  financial  methods  make  me 
mad — that's  why  this  loose  and  careless  transformation 
of  a  decent,  sincere,  innocent  boy  into  an  experienced, 
easy-going,  cynical  man  makes  me  tired.  I've  got  to 
stand  for  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  don't  want  to.  He's  a 
gifted,,  clever,  lovable  fellow,  but  he  hasn't  any  money 
and  any  right  to  leisure,  and  these  people  are  turning 
him  into  one  of  those  dancing  things  that  leads  cotil 
lions  and  arranges  tableaux,  and  plays  social  diplomat 
and  forgets  secrets  and  has  his  pockets  full  of  boudoir 
keys — good  Lord !  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  they're  making 
a  tame  cat  of  him — they're  using  him  ignobly,  I  tell  you 
— and  that's  the  truth — if  he  had  a  friend  with  courage 
enough  to  tell  him!  I've  tried,  but  I  can't  talk  this 
way  to  him." 

There  was  a  silence :  then  O'Hara  crossed  one  lank 
le^s  over  the  other,  gingerly,  and  contemplated  his  left 
shoe. 

"  Karl,"  he  said,  "  character  never  really  changes ; 
it  only  develops.  What's  born  in  the  cradle  is  lowered 
into  the  grave,  as  some  Russian  guy  said.  You're  a 
writer,  and  you  know  what  I  say  is  true." 

"  Granted.  But  Quarren's  character  isn't  develop 
ing;  it's  being  stifled,  strangled.  He  could  have  been 

6 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

a  professional  man — a  lawyer,  and  a  brilliant  one — or 
an  engineer,  or  a  physician — any  old  thing.  He's  in 
real  estate — if  you  can  call  it  that.  All  right;  why 
doesn't  he  do  something  in  it?  I'll  tell  you  why,"  he 
added,  angrily  answering  his  own  question ;  "  these  silly 
women  are  turning  Quarren's  ambition  into  laziness, 
his  ideals  into  mockery,  his  convictions  into  cyni 
cism — • — 

He  stopped  short.  The  door  opened,  and  Quarren 
sauntered  in. 

"  Couldn't  help  hearing  part  of  your  sermon,  Karl," 
he  said  laughing.  "  Go  ahead ;  I  don't  mind  the  Bible 
and  the  Sword — it's  good  for  Jack  Lacy,  too — and  that 
scoundrel  O'Hara.  Hit  us  again,  old  Ironsides.  We're 
no  good."  And  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  Lacy's  bed, 
and  presently  stretched  out  on  it,  gracefully,  arms 
under  his  blond  head. 

"  You've  been  catchin'  it,  Ricky,"  said  O'Hara  with 
a  grin.  "  Karl  says  that  fashionable  society  is  a  bally 
wampire  a-gorgin'  of  hisself  at  the  expense  of  bright 
young  men  like  you.  What's  the  come-back  to  that, 
sonny?  " 

"  Thanks  old  fellow,"  said  Quarren  laughing  and 
slightly  lifting  his  head  to  look  across  at  Westguard. 
"  Go  ahead  and  talk  hell  and  brimstone.  A  fight  is  the 
only  free  luxury  in  the  Irish  Legation.  I'll  swat  you 
with  a  pillow  when  I  get  mad  enough." 

Westguard  bent  his  heavy  head  and  looked  down  at 
the  yellow  check  on  the  table. 

"  Rix,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  to  tell  you  that  you  have 
forgotten  to  make  a  deposit  at  your  bank." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Quarren  with  weary  but 
amiable  vexation  —  "  that  is  the  third  time.  What 

7 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

are    you    fellows    going   to   do?      Put    me    out    of    the 
Legation  ?  " 

"  Why  the  devil  are  you  so  careless  ?  "  growled 
Westguard. 

"  I  honestly  don't  know.  I  didn't  suppose  I  was 
so  short.  I  thought  I  had  a  balance." 

"  Rot !  The  minute  a  man  begins  to  think  he  has 
a  balance  he  knows  damn  well  that  he  hasn't!  I  don't 
care,  Rix — but,  take  it  from  me,  you'll  have  a  mortify 
ing  experience  one  of  these  days." 

"  I  guess  that's  right,"  said  Quarren  with  a  kind 
of  careless  contrition.  "  I  never  seem  to  be  more  than  a 
lap  or  two  ahead  of  old  lady  Ruin.  And  I  break  the 
speed-laws,  too." 

"No  youngster  ever  beat  that  old  woman  in  a  foot 
race,"  observed  Lacy.  "  Pay  up  and  give  her  enough 
car-fare  to  travel  the  other  way ;  that's  your  only 
chance,  Ricky." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  No  fellow  need  be  in  debt  if  he 
pays  up,  you  Hibernian  idiot !  " 

"  Do  you  want  some  money  ?  "  asked  Westguard 
bluntly. 

"  Sure,  Karl,  oodles  of  it !  But  not  from  you,  old 
chap." 

"  You  know  you  can  have  it  from  me,  too,  don't 
you?"  said  O'Hara. 

Quarren  nodded  cordially :  "  I'll  get  it ;  no  fear.  I'm 
terribly  sorry  about  that  check.  But  it  will  be  all  right 
to-morrow,  Karl." 

Lacy  thought  to  himself  with  a  grin :  "  He'll  kill 
somebody  at  Auction  to  square  himself — that's  what 
Ricky  means  to  do.  God  be  good  to  the  wealthy  this 
winter  night !  " 

8 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

O'Hara,  lank,  carefully  scrubbed,  carefully  turned 
out  as  one  of  his  own  hunters,  stood  up  with  a  yawn 
and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"  Didn't  somebody  say  somebody  was  comin'  in  to 
tea  ?  "  he  asked  generally. 

"  My  cousin,  Mrs.  Wycherly,"  said  Westguard — 
"  and  a  friend  of  hers — I've  forgotten — 

"  Mrs.  Leeds,"  observed  Lacy.  "  And  she  is  reputed 
to  be  a  radiant  peach.  Did  any  of  you  fellows  ever 
meet  her  in  the  old  days  ?  " 

Nobody  there  had  ever  seen  her. 

"Did  Mrs.  Wycherly  say  she  is  a  looker?"  asked 
O'Hara,  sceptically. 

Westguard  shrugged :  "  You  know  wyhat  to  expect 
when  one  woman  tells  you  that  another  woman  is  good- 
looking.  Probably  she  has  a  face  that  would  kill  a 
caterpillar." 

Quarren  laughed  lazily  from  the  bed: 

"  I  hear  she's  pretty.  She's  come  out  of  the  West. 
You  know,  of  course,  who  she  was." 

"  Reggie  Leeds's  wife,"  said  O'Hara,  slowly. 

There  was  a  silence.  Perhaps  the  men  were  think 
ing  of  the  late  Reginald  Leeds,  and  of  the  deep  damna 
tion  of  his  taking  off. 

"  Have  you  never  seen  her?  "  asked  Lacy. 

"  Nobody  ever  has.  She's  never  before  been  here," 
said  Quarren,  yawning. 

"  Then  come  down  and  set  the  kettle  on,  Ricky. 
She  may  be  the  peachiest  kind  of  a  peach  in  a  special 
crate  directed  to  your  address  and  marked  '  Perishable ! 
Rush !  With  care !  '  So  we'll  have  to  be  very  careful  in 
rushing  her " 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  stop  that  lady-patter," 
9 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

protested  O'Hara,  linking  his  arm  in  Lacy's  and 
sauntering  toward  the  door.  "  That  sort  of  con 
versation  is  Ricky's  line  of  tea-talk.  You'll  reduce 
him  to  a  pitiable  silence  if  you  take  away  his  only 
asset." 

Westguard  gathered  up  his  papers,  pausing  a  mo 
ment  at  the  doorway : 

"  Coming  ?  "  he  asked  briefly  of  Quarren  who  was 
laughing. 

"  Certainly  he's  coming,"  said  Lacy  returning  and 
attempting  to  drag  him  from  the  bed.  "  Come  on,  you 
tea-cup-rattling,  macaroon-crunching,  caste-smitten, 
fashion-bitten  Arbiter  Elegantiarum  !  " 

They  fought  for  a  moment,  then  Lacy  staggered 
back  under  repeated  wallops  from  one  of  his  own  pil 
lows,  and  presently  retired  to  his  bath-room  to  brush 
his  thick  red  hair.  This  hair  was  his  pride  and  sorrow : 
it  defied  him  in  a  brilliant  cowlick  until  plastered  flat 
with  water.  However,  well  soaked,  his  hair  darkened  to 
what  he  considered  a  chestnut  colour.  And  that  made 
him  very  proud. 

When  he  had  soaked  and  subdued  his  ruddy  locks 
he  came  out  to  where  Westguard  still  stood. 

"Are  you  coming,  Rix?"  demanded  the  latter 
again. 

"  Not  unless  you  particularly  want  me,"  returned 
Quarren,  yawning  amiably.  "  I  could  take  a  nap  if 
that  red-headed  Mick  would  get  out  of  here." 

Westguard  said :  "  Suit  yourself,"  and  followed 
Lacy  and  O'Hara  down  the  stairs. 

The  two  latter  young  fellows  turned  aside  into 
O'Hara's  apartments  to  further  remake  a  killing  and 
deadly  toilet.  Westguard  continued  on  to  the  first 

10 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

floor  which  he  inhabited,  and  where  he  found  a  Japanese 
servant  already  preparing  the  tea  paraphernalia.  A 
few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Wycherly  arrived  with  Mrs. 
Leeds. 

All  women,  experienced  or  otherwise,  never  quite 
lose  their  curiosity  concerning  a  bachelor's  quarters. 
The  haunts  of  men  interest  woman,  fascinating  the  mar 
ried  as  well  as  the  unwedded.  Deep  in  their  gentle 
souls  they  know  that  the  most  luxurious  masculine 
abode  could  easily  be  made  twice  as  comfortable  by  the 
kindly  advice  of  any  woman.  Toleration,  curiosity, 
sympathy  are  the  emotions  which  stir  feminine  hearts 
when  inspecting  the  solitary  lair  of  the  human  male. 

"  So  these  are  the  new  rooms,"  said  Molly  Wycherly, 
patronisingly,  after  O'Hara  and  Lacy  had  appeared 
and  everybody  had  been  presented  to  everybody  else. 
"  Strelsa,  do  look  at  those  early  Edwards  prints !  It's 
utterly  impossible  to  find  any  of  them  now  for  sale  any 
where." 

Strelsa  Leeds  looked  up  at  the  Botticelli  Madonna 
and  at  Madame  Roy  ale ;  and  the  three  men  looked  at 
her  as  though  hynotised. 

So  this  was  Reginald  Leeds's  wife — this  distracting- 
ly  pretty  woman — even  yet  scarcely  more  than  a  girl— 
with  her  delicate  colour  and  vivid  lips  and  unspoiled 
eyes — dark  eyes — a  kind  of  purplish  gray,  very  purely 
and  exquisitely  shaped.  But  in  their  grayish-violet 
depths  there  was  murder.  And  the  assassination  of 
Lacy  and  O'Hara  had  already  been  accomplished. 

Her  hat,  gown,  gloves,  furs  were  black — as  though 
the  tragic  shadow  of  two  years  ago  still  fell  across  her 
slender  body. 

She  looked  around  at  the  room;  Molly  Wycherly, 
11 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

pouring  tea,  nodded  to  Westguard,  and  he  handed  the 
cup  to  Mrs.  Leeds. 

She  said,  smilingly :  "  And — do  you  three  unpro 
tected  men  live  in  this  big  house  all  by  yourselves  ?  " 

"  There  are  four  of  us  in  the  Legation,"  said  Lacy, 
"  and  several  servants  to  beat  off  the  suffragettes  who 
become  enamoured  of  us." 

"  The — legation?  "  she  repeated,  amused  at  the 
term. 

"  Our  friends  call  this  house  the  Irish  Legation,"  he 
explained.  "  We're  all  Irish  by  descent  except  West- 
guard  who's  a  Sassenach — and  Dick  Quarren,  who  is 
only  half  Irish.' 

"  And  who  is  Dick  Quarren  ?  "  she  asked  inno 
cently. 

"  Oh,  Strelsa !  "  cautioned  Molly  Wycherly — "  you 
really  mustn't  argue  yourself  unknown." 

"  But  I  am  unknown,"  insisted  the  girl,  laughing 
and  looking  at  the  men  in  turn  with  an  engaging  can 
dour  that  bowled  them  over  again,  one  by  one.  "  I  don't 
know  who  Mr.  Quarren  is,  so  why  not  admit  it?  Is  he 
such  a  very  wonderful  personage,  Mr.  Lacy?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Leeds.  He  and  I  share  the  top 
floor  of  the  Legation.  We  are,  as  a  matter  of  record, 
the  two  financial  wrecks  of  this  establishment,  so  natur 
ally  we  go  to  the  garret.  Poverty  is  my  only  distinc 
tion  ;  Mr.  Quarren,  however,  also  leads  the  grand  march 
at  Lyric  Hall  now  and  then  I  believe — 

"  What  is  Lyric  Hall?     Ought  I  to  know?  " 

Everybody  was  laughing,  and  Molly  Wycherly 
said  : 

"  Richard  Quarren,  known  variously  as  Rix,  Ricky, 
and  Dick  Quarren,  is  an  exceedingly  popular  and  indis- 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

pensable  young  man  in  this  town.     You'll  meet  him, 
Strelsa,  and  probably  adore  him.     We  all  do." 

"  Must  I  wait  very  long?  "  asked  Strelsa,  laughing. 
"  I'd  like  to  have  the  adoration  begin." 

Lacy  said  to  O'Hara :  "  Go  up  and  pull  that  pitiable 
dub  off  the  bed,  Roger.  The  lady  wishes  to  inspect 
him." 

"  That's  not  very  civil  of  Rix,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly ; 
"  but  I  fancy  I  know  wThy  he  requires  slumber."  She 
added,  glancing  around  mischievously  at  the  three  men 
who  were  all  looking  languishingly  at  Mrs.  Leeds : 
"  He'll  be  sorry  when  you  three  gentlemen  describe 
Strelsa  to  him.  I  can  prophesy  that  much." 

i  "Certainly,"  said  Lacy,  airily;  "we're  all  at  Mrs. 
Leeds's  feet !  Even  the  blind  bat  of  Drumgool  could  see 
that!  So  why  deny  it?  " 

"  You're  not  denying  it,  Mr.  Lacy,"  said  Strelsa, 
laughing.  "  But  I  realise  perfectly  that  I  am  in  the 
Irish  Legation.  So  I  shall  carefully  salt  everything  you 
say  to  me." 

"  If  you  think  I've  kissed  the  blessed  pebble  you 
ought  to  listen  to  that  other  bankrupt  upstairs,"  said 
Lacy. 

"  As  far  as  pretty  speeches  are  concerned  you  seem 
to  be  perfectly  solvent,"  said  Strelsa  gaily,  looking 
around  her  at  the  various  adornments  of  this  masculine 
abode.  "  I  wonder  where  you  dine,"  she  added  with 
curiosity  unabashed. 

"  We've  a  fine  dining-room  below,"  he  said  proudly, 
"haven't  we,  Roger?  And  as  soon  as  Dick  Quarren 
and  I  are  sufficiently  solvent  to  warrant  it,  the  Lega 
tion  is  going  to  give  a  series  of  brilliant  banquets ; 
will  you  come,  Mrs.  Leeds?  " 

13 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  When  you  are  solvent,  perhaps,"  said  Strelsa, 
smiling. 

"  Westguard  and  I  will  give  you  a  banquet  at  an 
hour's  notice,"  said  O'Hara,  eagerly.  "  Will  you  ac 
cept?  " 

"  Such  overwhelming  offers  of  hospitality !  "  she 
protested.  "  I  had  believed  the  contrary  about  New 
Yorkers.  You  see  I've  just  emerged  from  the  West, 
and  I  don't  really  know  what  to  think  of  such  bewilder 
ing  cordiality." 

"  Karl,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  "  are  you  going  to 
show  us  over  the  house?  If  you  are  we  must  hurry,  as 
Strelsa  and  I  are  to  decorate  the  Calderas'  box  this 
evening,  and  it  takes  me  an  hour  to  paint  my  face." 
She  turned  a  fresh,  winsome  countenance  to  Westguard, 
who  laughed,  rose,  and  took  his  pretty  cousin  by  the 
hand. 

Under  triple  escort  Mrs.  Wycherly  and  Mrs.  Leeds 
examined  the  Legation  from  kitchen  to  garret  — 
and  Strelsa,  inadvertently  glancing  in  at  a  room 
just  as  Westguard  started  to  close  the  door,  caught 
sight  of  a  recumbent  shape  on  a  bed — just  a  glimpse 
of  a  blond,  symmetrical  head  and  a  well-coupled 
figure,  graceful  even  in  the  careless  relaxation  of 
sleep. 

Westguard  asked  her  pardon :  "  That's  Quarren. 
He  was  probably  up  till  daylight." 

"  He  was,"  said  Molly  Wycherly ;  "  and  by  the  same 
token  so  was  I.  Thank  you  so  much,  Karl.  .  .  .  Thank 
you,  Mr.  O'Hara — and  you,  too,  Jack!  " — offering  her 
hand — "  We've  had  a  splendid  party.  .  .  .  Strelsa,  we 
really  ought  to  go  at  once " 

"  Will  you  come  again  ?  " 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  We  will  come  again  if  you  ask  us,"  said  Strelsa ; 
"  we're  perfectly  fascinated  by  the  Legation." 

"  And  its  personnel?  "  hinted  Lacy.  "  Do  you  like 
us,  Mrs.  Leeds?  " 

"  I've  only  seen  three  of  you,"  parried  Strelsa,  much 
amused. 

"  We  refuse  to  commit  ourselves,"  said  Molly. 
"  Good-bye.  I  suppose  you  all  are  coming  to  my  house- 
warming." 

They  all  looked  at  Mrs.  Leeds  and  said  that  they 
were  coming — said  so  fervently. 

Molly  laughed:  she  had  no  envy  in  her  make-up, 
perhaps  because  she  was  too  pretty  herself. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  replying  to  their  unasked  ques 
tions,  "  Mrs.  Leeds  will  be  there — and  I  plainly  see  my 
miserable  fate.  But  what  can  a  wretched  woman  expect 
from  the  Irish?  Not  constancy.  Strelsa,  take  warn 
ing.  They  loved  me  once !  " 

After  Westguard  had  put  them  in  their  limousine, 
he  came  back  to  find  Quarren  in  his  sitting-room,  wear 
ing  a  dressing-gown,  and  Lacy  madly  detailing  to  him 
the  charms  of  Strelsa  Leeds: 

"  Take  it  from  me,  Dicky,  she's  some  queen ! 
You  didn't  miss  a  thing  but  the  prettiest  woman  in 
town !  And  there's  a  something  about  her — a  kind  of  a 
sort  of  a  something " 

"  You  appear  to  be  in  love,  dear  friend,"  observed 
Quarren  kindly. 

"  I  am.  So's  every  man  here  who  met  her.  We 
don't  deny  it !  We  glory  in  our  fall !  What  was  that 
costume  of  hers,  Karl?  Mourning?  " 

"  Fancy  a  glorious  creature  like  her  wearin'  black 
15 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

for  that  nasty  little  cad,"  observed  O'Hara  dis 
gustedly. 

"  It's  probably  fashion,  not  grief,"  remarked  West- 
guard. 

"  I  guess  it's  nix  for  the  weeps,"  said  O'Hara — 
"  after  all  she  probably  went  through  with  Reggie 
Leeds,  I  fancy  she  had  no  tears  left  over." 

"  I  want  to  talk,"  cried  Lacy ;  "  I  want  to  tell  Rix 
what  he  missed.  I'd  got  as  far  as  her  gown,  I 
think " 

"  Go  on,"  smiled  Quarren. 

"  Anyway,"  said  Lacy,  "  she  wore  a  sort  of  mourn 
ing  as  far  as  her  veil  went,  and  her  furs  and  gown  and 
gloves  were  black,  and  her  purse  was  gun-metal  and 
black  opals — rather  brisk?  Yes? — And  all  the  dingles 
on  her  were  gun-metal — everything  black  and  sober— 
and  that  ruddy  gold  head — and — those  eyes  ! — a  kind 
of  a  purple-gray,  Ricky,  slanting  a  little,  with  long 
black  lashes — I  noticed  'em — and  her  lips  were  very 
vivid — not  paint,  but  a  kind  of  noticeably  healthy 
scarlet — and  that  straight  nose — and  the  fresh  fragrant 
youth  of  her " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Jack " 


"  Sure.  I'm  through  with  'em  all.  I'm  wise  to  the 
sex.  That  was  merely  a  word  picture.  I'm  talking  like 
a  writer,  that's  all.  That's  how  you  boobs  talk,  isn't 
it,  Karl?" 

"  Always,"  said  Westguard  gravely. 

"  Me  for  Mrs.  Leeds,"  remarked  O'Hara  frankly. 
"  I'd  ask  her  to  marry  me  on  the  drop  of  a  hat." 

"  Well,  I'll  drop  no  hat  for  you!  "  said  Lacy.  "  And 
there'll  be  plenty  of  lunatics  in  this  town  who'll  go 
madder  than  you  or  me  before  they  forget  Mrs.  Leeds. 

16 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Wait !  Town  is  going  to  sit  up  and  take  notice  when 
this  new  planet  swims  into  its  social  ken.  How's  that 
epigram,  Karl  ?  " 

Westguard  said  thoughtfully :  "  There'll  be  no 
toriety,  too,  I'm  afraid.  If  nobody  knows  her 
everybody  knows  about  that  wretched  boy  she  mar 
ried." 

Quarren  added :  "  I  have  always  understood  that 
the  girl  did  not  want  to  marry  him.  It  was  her  mother's 
doings." 

O'Hara  scowled.  "  I  also  have  heard  that  the 
mother  engineered  it.  ...  What  was  Mrs.  Leeds's 

name?    I  forget " 

^  "  Strelsa  Lanark,"  said  Quarren  who  never  forgot 
anything. 

"  Ugh,"  grunted  Westguard.  "  Fancy  a  mother 
throwing  her  daughter  at  the  head  of  a  boy  like  Reggie 
Leeds ! — as  vicious  and  unclean  a  little  whelp  as  ever — 
Oh,  what's  the  use? — and  de  mortius  nihil — et  cetera, 
cock-a-doodle-do !  " 

:'  That  poor  girl  had  two  entire  years  of  him,"  ob 
served  Lacy.  "  She  doesn't  look  more  than  twenty 
now — and  he's  been  in — been  dead  two  years.  Good 
Heavens !  What  a  child  she  must  have  been  when  she 
married  him !  " 

Westguard  nodded :  "  She  had  two  years  of  him — 
and  I  suppose  he  seldom  drew  a  perfectly  sober  breath. 
.  .  .  He  dragged  her  all  over  the  world  with  him — she 
standing  for  his  rotten  behaviour,  trying  to  play  the 
game  with  the  cards  hopelessly  stacked  against  her. 
Vincent  Wier  met  them  in  Naples ;  Mallison  ran  across 
them  in  Egypt ;  so  did  Lydon  in  Vienna.  They  said  it 
was  heartbreaking  to  see  her  trying  to  keep  up  appear- 

17 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ances — trying  to  smile  under  his  nagging  or  his  drunken 
insults  in  public  places.  Lydon  told  me  that  she  be 
haved  like  a  brick — stuck  to  Reggie,  tried  to  shield  him, 
excuse  him,  make  something  out  of  the  miserable  pup 
who  was  doing  his  best  to  drag  her  to  his  own  level  and 
deprave  her.  But  I  guess  she  was  too  young  or  too  un 
happy  or  something,  because  there's  no  depravity  in  the 
girl  who  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  I'll  swear  to 
that." 

After  a  moment  Lacy  said :  "  Well,  he  got  his  at 
last !  " 

"  What  was  comin'  to  him,"  added  O'Hara,  with 
satisfaction. 

Lacy  added,  curiously :  "  How  can  a  man  misbehave 
when  he  has  such  a  woman  for  a  wife?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  observed  Quarren,  "  how  many  solid 
citizens  read  the  account  in  the  papers  and  remained 
scared  longer  than  six  weeks  ?  " 

"  Lord  help  the  wives  of  men,"  growled  Westguard. 
..."  If  any  of  you  fellows  are  dressing  for  dinner 
you'd  better  be  about  it.  ...  Wait  a  moment,  Rix !  " 
— as  Quarren,  the  last  to  leave,  was  already  passing  the 
threshold. 

The  young  fellow  turned,  smiling:  the  others  went 
on ;  Westguard  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  then : 

"  You're  about  the  only  man  I  care  for  very  much," 
he  said  bluntly.  "  If  I  am  continually  giving  you  the 
Bible  and  the  Sword  it's  the  best  I  have  to  give." 

Quarren  replied  laughingly. 

"  Don't  worry,  old  fellow.  I  take  what  you  say  all 
right.  And  I  really  mean  to  cut  out  a  lot  of  fussing 
and  begin  to  hustle.  .  .  .  Only,  isn't  it  a  wise  thing  to 
keep  next  to  possible  clients?  " 

18 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  The  people  you  train  with  don't  buy  lots  in  Tap- 
pan-Zee  Park." 

"  But  I  may  induce  them  to  go  into  more  fashion 
able  enterprises ' 

"  Not  they !  The  eagle  yells  on  every  dollar  they 
finger.  If  there's  any  bleeding  to  be  done  they'll  do  it, 
my  son." 

"  Lester  Caldera  has  already  asked  me  about  acre 
age  in  Westchester." 

"  Did  he  do  more  than  ask?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  you  charge  him  for  the  consultation?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Then  he  got  your  professional  opinion  for  noth- 
ing." 

"  But  he,  or  others,  may  try  to  assemble  several 
farms " 

"Why  don't  they  then? — instead  of  dragging  you 
about  at  their  heels  from  house  to  house,  from  card- 
room  to  ball-room,  from  cafe  to  opera,  from  one  week 
end  to  the  next ! — robbing  you  of  time,  of  leisure,  of  op 
portunity,  of  ambition — spoiling  you — making  a  bally 
monkey  of  you!  You're  always  in  some  fat  woman's 
opera  box  or  on  some  fat  man's  yacht  or  coach,  or  doing 
some  damn  thing — with  your  name  figuring  in  every 
thing  from  Newport  to  Hot  Springs — and — and  how 
can  you  ever  turn  into  anything  except  a  tame  cat !  " 

Quarren's  face  reddened  slightly. 

"  I'd  be  perfectly  willing  to  sit  in  an  office  all  day 
and  all  night  if  anybody  would  give  me  any  business. 
But  what's  the  use  of  chewing  pencils  and  watching 
traffic  on  Forty-second  Street?  " 

"  Then  go  into  another  business !  " 
19 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

"  I  haven't  any  money." 

"  I'll  lend  it  to  you !  " 

"  I  can't  risk  your  money,  Karl.  I'm  too  uncertain 
of  myself.  If  anybody  else  offered  to  stake  me  I'd  try 
the  gamble."  .  .  .  He  looked  up  at  Westguard, 
ashamed,  troubled,  and  showing  it  like  a  boy.  "  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  amount  to  anything,  Karl.  I'm  afraid 
I'm  no  good  except  in  the  kind  of  thing  I  seem  to  have 
a  talent  for." 

"  Fetching  and  carrying  for  the  fashionable  and 
wealthy,"  sneered  Westguard. 

Quarren's  face  flushed  again :  "  I  suppose  that's  it." 

Westguard  glared  at  him :  "  I  wish  I  could  shake  it 
out  of  you !  " 

"  I  guess  the  poison's  there,"  said  Quarren  in  a  low 
voice.  "  The  worst  of  it  is  I  like  it — except  when  I 
understand  your  contempt." 

"  You  like  to  fetch  and  carry  and  go  about  with 
your  pocket  full  of  boudoir  keys !  " 

"  People  give  me  as  much  as  I  give  them." 

"  They  don't !  "  said  the  other  angrily.  "  They've 
taken  a  decent  fellow  and  put  him  in  livery !  " 

Quarren  bit  his  lip  as  the  blood  leaped  to  his  face. 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  Karl,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Even  you  have  no  business  to  take  that  tone  with 
me." 

There  was  a  silence.  After  a  few  moments  West- 
guard  came  over  and  held  out  his  hand.  Quarren  took 
it,  looked  at  him. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  there's  nothing  to  me.     It's 
your  kindness,  Karl,  that  sees  in  me  possibilities  that 
•  were." 

They're   there.      I'll   do   my   duty  almost  to   the 
20 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

point  of  breaking  our  friendship.  But — I'll  have  to 
stop  short  of  that  point." 

A  quick  smile  came  over  Quarren's  face,  gay,  affec 
tionate  : 

"You  couldn't  do  that,  Karl.  .  .  .  And  don't 
worry.  I'll  cut  out  a  lot  of  frills  and  try  to  do  things 
that  are  worth  while.  I  mean  it,  really.  Don't  worry, 
old  fellow." 

"  All  right,"  said  Westguard,  smiling. 


CHAPTER    II 

A  MASKED  dance,  which  for  so  long  has  been  out  of 
fashion  in  the  world  that  pretends  to  it,  was  the  ex 
periment  selected  by  Molly  Wycherly  for  the  warming 
up  of  her  new  house  on  Park  Avenue. 

The  snowy  avenue  for  blocks  was  a  mass  of  motors 
and  carriages ;  a  platoon  of  police  took  charge  of  the 
vehicular  mess.  Outside  of  the  storm-coated  lines  the 
penniless  world  of  shreds  and  patches  craned  a  thou 
sand  necks  as  the  glittering  costumes  passed  from 
brougham  and  limousine  under  the  awnings  into  the 
great  house. 

Already  in  the  new  ball-room,  along  the  edges  of  the 
whirl,  masqueraders  in  tumultuous  throngs  were  crowd 
ing  forward  to  watch  the  dancers  or  drifting  into  the 
eddies  and  set-backs  where  ranks  of  overloaded  gilt 
chairs  creaked  under  jewelled  dowagers,  and  where 
rickety  old  beaux  impersonated  tinselled  courtiers  on 
wavering  but  devoted  legs. 

Aloft  in  their  rococo  sky  gallery  a  popular  orchestra 
fiddled  frenziedly ;  the  great  curtains  of  living  green  set 
with  thousands  of  gardenias  swayed  in  the  air  currents 
like  Chinese  tapestries ;  a  harmonious  tumult  swept  the 
big  new  ball-room  from  end  to  end — a  composite  up 
roar  in  which  were  mingled  the  rushing  noise  of  silk, 
clatter  of  sole  and  heel,  laughter  and  cries  of  capering 
maskers  gathered  from  the  four  quarters  of  fashionable 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Gath  to  grace  the  opening  of  the  House  of  Wycherly. 
They  were  all  there,  dowager,  matron,  debutante,  old 
beaux,  young  gallant,  dancing,  laughing,  coquetting, 
flirting.  Young  eyes  mocked  the  masked  eyes  that 
wooed  them;  adolescence  tormented  maturity;  the 
toothless  ogled  the  toothsome.  Unmasking  alone  could 
set  right  this  topsy-turvy  world  of  carnival. 

A  sinuous  Harlequin,  his  skin-tight  lozenge-pat 
terned  dress  shimmering  like  the  red  and  gold  skin  of  a 
Malay  snake,  came  weaving  his  way  through  the  edges 
of  the  maelstrom,  his  eyes  under  the  black  half-mask 
glittering  maliciously  at  the  victims  of  his  lathe-sword. 
With  it  he  recklessly  slapped  whatever  tempted  him, 
patting  gently  the  rounded  arms  and  shoulders  of 
nymph  and  shepherdess,  using  more  vigour  on  the 
plump  contours  of  fat  and  elderly  courtiers,  spinning 
on  the  points  of  his  pump-toes,  his  limber  lathe-sword 
curved  in  both  hands  above  his  head,  leaping  lithely 
over  a  chair  here  and  there,  and  landing  always  as 
lightly  as  a  cat  on  silent  feet — a  wiry,  symmetrical  fig 
ure  under  the  rakish  bi-corne,  instinct  with  mischief  and 
grace  infernal. 

Encountering  a  burly  masker  dressed  like  one  of 
Cromwell's  ponderous  Ironsides,  he  hit  him  a  re 
sounding  whack  over  his  aluminum  cuirass,  and  whis 
pered  : 

"  That  Ironside  rig  doesn't  conceal  you :  it  reveals 
you,  Karl !  Out  with  your  Bible  and  your  Sword  and 
preach  the  wrath  to  come !  " 

"  It  will  come  all  right,"  said  Westguard.  "  Do 
you  know  how  many  hundred  thousand  dollars  are 
wasted  here  to-night?  .  .  .  And  yesterday  a  woman 
died  of  hunger  in  Carmine  Street.  Don't  worry  about 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

the  wrath  of  God  as  long  as  people  die  of  cold  and 
hunger  in  the  streets  of  Ascalon." 

"  That's  not  as  bad  as  dying  of  inanition — which 
would  happen  to  the  majority  here  if  they  didn't 
have  things  like  this  to  amuse  'em.  For  decency's 
sake,  Karl,  pity  the  perplexities  of  the  rich  for  a 
change !  " 

Westguard  grunted  something  under  his  casque; 
then,  adjusting  his  aluminum  mask: 

"Are  you  having  a  good  time,  Dicky?  I  suppose 
you  are." 

"  Oh,  I'm  gay  enough,"  returned  the  Harlequin  air 
ily — "  but  there's  never  much  genuine  gaiety  among 
the  overfed."  And  he  slapped  a  passing  gallant  with 
his  wooden  sword,  spun  around  on  his  toes,  bent  over 
gracefully  and  stood  on  his  hands,  legs  twinkling  above 
him  in  the  air.  Then,  with  a  bound  he  was  on  his 
nimble  feet  again,  and,  linking  his  arm  in  the  arm  of  the 
Cromwellian  trooper,  strolled  along  the  ranks  of  fan 
ning  dowagers,  glancing  amiably  into  their  masked 
faces. 

"  Same  old  battle-line,"  he  observed  .to  his  com 
panion — "  their  jewels  give  them  away.  Same  old 
tiaras,  same  old  ladies — all  fat,  all  fifty,  all  fanning 
away  like  the  damned.  Your  aunt  has  on  about  a  ton 
of  emeralds.  I  think  she  does  it  for  the  purpose  of 
banting,  don't  you,  Karl ' 

The  uproar  drowned  his  voice :  Westguard,  colossal 
in  his  armour,  gazed  gloomily  around  at  the  gorgeous 
spectacle  for  which  his  cousin  Molly  Wycherly  was  re 
sponsible. 

"  It's  monkey-shines  like  this  that  breed  anarch 
ists,"  he  growled.  "  Did  you  notice  that  rubbering 


"Westguard,  colossal  in  his  armour,  gazed  gloomily  around  at  the  gorgeous 

spectacle." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

crowd  outside  the  police  lines  in  the  snow?     Molly  and 
Jim  ought  to  see  it." 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out,  Karl,"  retorted  the  Harlequin 
gaily ;  "  there'll  be  rich  and  poor  in  the  world  as  long  as 
the  bally  old  show  runs — there'll  be  reserved  seats  and 
gallery  seats  and  standing  room  only,  and  ninety-nine 
per  cent,  of  the  world  cooling  its  shabby  heels  outside." 

"  I  don't  care  to  discuss  the  problem  with  you" 
observed  Westguard.  After  a  moment  he  added :  "  I'm 
going  to  dance  once  or  twice  and  get  out.  ...  I  sup 
pose  you'll  flit  about  doing  the  agreeable  and  fashion 
able  until  daylight." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  Harlequin,  tranquilly. 
"  Why  not?  Also  you  ought  to  find  material  here  for 
one  of  your  novels." 

"  A  man  doesn't  have  to  hunt  for  material.  It's  in 
his  bed-room  when  he  wakes ;  it's  all  around  him  all  day 
long.  There's  no  more  here  than  there  is  outside  in  the 
snow;  and  no  less.  .  .  .  But  dancing  all  night  isn't 
going  to  help  your  business,  Ricky." 

"  It  won't  hurt  any  business  I'm  likely  to  do." 

"  Isn't  your  Tappan-Zee  Park  panning  out?  " 

"  Fizzling  out.  Nobody's  bought  any  building 
sites." 

"Why  not?" 

"  How  the  deuce  do  I  know,  Karl !  I  don't  want  to 
talk  business,  here " 

He  ceased  speaking  as  three  or  four  white  masked 
Bacchantes  in  fluttering  raiment  came  dancing  by  to 
the  wild  music  of  Philemon  and  Baucis.  Shaking  their 
be-ribboned  tambourines,  flowery  garlands  and  lynx- 
skins  flying  from  their  shoulders,  they  sped  away  on 
fleet  little  feet,  hotly  pursued  by  adorers. 

25 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  Harlequin  briskly ;  "  I  think 
one  of  those  skylarkers  ought  to  prove  amusing !  Shall 
I  catch  you  one?  " 

But  he  found  no  encouragement  in  the  swift  court 
ship  he  attempted;  for  the  Bacchantes,  loudly  protest 
ing  at  his  interference,  banged  him  over  his  head 
and  shoulders  with  their  resounding  tambourines  and 
danced  aw&*r  unheeding  his  blandishments. 

"  Flappers,"  observed  a  painted  and  powdered 
clown  whose  voice  betrayed  him  as  O'Hara ;  "  this 
town  is  overstocked  with  fudge-fed  broilers.  They're 
always  playin'  about  under  foot,  spoilin'  your  huntin' ; 
and  if  you  touch  'em  they  ki-yi  no  end." 

"  I  suppose  you're  looking  for  Mrs.  Leeds,"  said 
Westguard,  smiling. 

"  I  fancy  every  man  here  is  doin'  the  same  thing," 
replied  the  clown.  "What's  her  costume?  Do  you 
know,  Ironsides  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  did,"  said  Westguard 
frankly. 

The  Harlequin  shrugged. 

"  This  world,"  he  remarked,  "  is  principally  en 
cumbered  with  women,  and  naturally  a  man  supposes 
the  choice  is  unlimited.  But  as  you  live  to  drift 
from  girl  to  girl  you'll  discover  that  there  are  just 
two  kinds ;  the  kind  you  can  kiss  and  the  kind  you 
can't.  So  finally  you  marry  the  latter.  Does  Mrs. 
Leeds  flirt?  " 

"Will  a  fish  swim?"  rejoined  the  clown.  "You 
bet  she  will  flirt.  Haven't  you  met  her?  " 

"  I  ?  No,"  said  the  Harlequin  carelessly.  Which 
secretly  amused  both  Westguard  and  O'Hara,  for  it  had 
been  whispered  about  that  the  new  beauty  not  only  had 

26 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

taken  no  pains  to  meet  Quarren,  but  had  pointedly 
ignored  an  opportunity  when  the  choice  lay  with  her, 
remarking  that  dancing  men  wrere  one  of  the  social  ne 
cessities  which  everybody  took  for  granted — like  flowers 
and  champagne.  And  the  comment  had  been  carried 
straight  to  Quarren,  who  had  laughed  at  the  time — and 
had  never  forgotten  it,  nor  the  apparently  causeless 
contempt  that  evidently  had  inspired  it. 

The  clown  brandished  his  bunch  of  toy  balloons, 
and  gazed  about  him : 

"  Anybody  who  likes  can  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Leeds 
that  I'm  her  declared  suitor.  I  don't  care  who  knows  it. 
I'm  foolish  about  her.  She's  different  from  any  woman 
I  ever  saw.  And  if  I  don't  find  her  pretty  soon  I'll 
smash  every  balloon  over  your  head,  Ricky !  " 

The  Harlequin  laughed.  "  Women,"  he  said,  "  are 
cut  out  in  various  and  amusing  patterns  like  animal 
crackers,  but  the  fundamental  paste  never  varies,  and 
the  same  pastry  cook  seasoned  it." 

"  That's  a  sickly  and  degenerate  sentiment,"  ob 
served  Westguard. 

"  You  might  say  that  about  the  unfledged,"  added 
O'Hara — "  like  those  kittenish  Bacchantes.  Winifred 
Miller  and  the  youngest  Vernon  girl  were  two  of  those 
Flappers,  I  think.  But  there's  no  real  jollity  among 
the  satiated,"  he  added  despondently.  "  A  mask,  a. 
hungry  stomach,  and  empty  pockets  are  the  proper  in 
gredients  for  gaiety — take  it  from  me,  Karl."  And  he- 
wandered  off,  beating  everybody  with  his  bunch  of  toy 
balloons. 

Quarren  leaped  to  the  seat  of  a  chair  and  squatted 
there  drawing  his  shimmering  legs  up  under  him  like  a 
great  jewelled  spider. 

27 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

•  :  "  Bet  you  ten  that  the  voluminous  domino  yonder 
envelops  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Sprowl,"  whispered  West- 
guard. 

"  You're  betting  on  a  certainty  and  a  fat  ankle." 

"  Sure.  I've  seen  her  ankles  going  upstairs  too 
often.  .  .  .  What  the  devil  is  the  old  lady  wearing 
under  that  domino  ?  " 

"Wait  till  you  see  her  later,"  said  Quarren,  de 
lightedly.  "  She  has  come  as  Brunhilda." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  three  hundred  pounds  of  rela 
tive  as  Brunhilda,"  growled  Westguard. 

"  You  will,  to-morrow.  She's  given  her  photograph 
to  a  Herald  man." 

"  What  did  you  let  her  do  it  for?  "  demanded  West- 
guard  wrathfully. 

"  Could  I  help  it?  " 

"  You  could  have  stopped  her.  She  thinks  your 
opinion  is  the  last  lisp  in  fashionable  art  problems." 

"  There  are  some  things  you  can't  tell  a  woman," 
said  Quarren.  "  One  of  'em  concerns  her  weight." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  Mrs.  Sprowl?  " 

The  Harlequin  laughed: 

"  Where  would  I  be  if  I  incurred  your  aunt's  dis 
pleasure,  dear  friend?  " 

"  Out  of  the  monkey  house  for  good  I  suppose," 
admitted  Westguard.  "  Lord,  Ricky,  what  a  lot  you 
have  had  to  swallow  for  the  sake  of  staying  put  among 
these  people !  " 

Quarren  sat  meditating  under  his  mask,  cross- 
legged,  twirling  his  sword,  the  crash  of  the  floor  orches 
tra  dinning  in  his  close-set  ears. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  without  resentment,  "  I've  endured 
my  share.  That's  one  reason  why  I  don't  want  to  let 

28 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

several  years  of  humiliation  go  for  nothing.  I've  earned 
whatever  place  I  have.  And  I  mean  to  keep  it." 

Westguard  turned  on  him  half  angrily,  hesitated, 
then  remained  silent.  What  was  the  use?  If  Quarren 
had  not  been  guilty  of  actually  fawning,  toadying, 
currying  favour,  he  had  certainly  permitted  himself  to 
be  rudely  used.  He  had  learned  very  thoroughly  his 
art  in  the  school  of  the  courtier — learned  how  and 
when  to  be  blind,  silent,  deaf ;  how  to  offer,  how  to  yield, 
when  and  how  to  demand  and  exact.  Which,  to  West- 
guard,  meant  the  prostitution  of  intelligence.  And  he 
loathed  the  game  like  a  man  who  is  free  to  play  it  if  he 
cares  to.  Of  those  who  are  denied  participation,  few 
really  hate  it. 

But  he  said  nothing  more;  and  the  Harlequin,  in 
dolently  stretching  his  glittering  limbs,  dropped  a  light 
hand  on  Westguard's  cuirassed  shoulder: 

"  Don't  be  forever  spoiling  things  for  me,  Karl.  I 
really  do  enjoy  the  game  as  it  lies." 

"  It  does  lie— that  is  the  trouble,  Rix." 

"I  can't  afford  to  criticise  it.!.  .  .  Listen;  I'm  a, 
mediocre  man ;  I'd  never  count  among  real  men.  I 
count  in  the  set  which  I  amuse  and  which  accepts  me. 
Let  me  enjoy  it,  can't  you?  " 

An  aged  dandy,  masked,  painted,  wizened,  and 
dressed  like  Henri  II,  tottered  by  with  a  young  girl  on 
his  arm,  his  shrill,  falsetto  giggle  piercing  the  racket 
around  them. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  live  to  be  like  that?  "  asked  West- 
guard  sharply. 

"  Oh,  I'll  die  long  before  that,"  said  Quarren  cheer 
fully,  and  leaped  lightly  to  his  feet.  "  I  shall  now  ac 
complish  a  little  dancing,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his 

29 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

wooden  sword  at  the  tossing  throng.  "  Venus  send  me 
a  pretty  married  woman  who  really  loves  her  hus 
band.  .  .  .  By  Bacchus !  Those  dancers  are  going  it ! 
Come  on,  Karl.  Leave  us  foot  it !  " 

Many  maskers  were  throwing  confetti  now:  multi- 
tinted  serpents  shot  out  across  the  clamorous  gulf; 
bunches  of  roses  flung  high,  rising  in  swift  arcs  of 
flight,  crossed  and  recrossed.  All  along  the  edges  of  the 
dance,  like  froth  and  autumn  leaves  cast  up  from  a 
whirlpool,  fluffy  feminine  derelicts  and  gorgeous  mas 
culine  escorts  were  flung  pell-mell  out  of  the  maelstrom 
and  left  stranded  or  drifting  breathless  among  the  eddies 
setting  in  toward  the  supper-room. 

Suddenly,  as  the  Harlequin  bent  forward  to  plunge 
into  the  crush,  the  very  centre  of  the  whirlpool  parted, 
and  out  of  it  floated  a  fluttering,  jingling,  dazzling 
figure  all  gold — slender,  bare-armed  and  bare  of  throat 
and  shoulders,  auriferous,  scintillating  from  crown  to 
ankle — for  her  sleeveless  tabard  was  cloth-of-gold,  and 
her  mask  was  gold;  so  were  her  jewelled  shoes  and  the 
gemmed  fillet  that  bound  her  locks ;  and  her  thick  hair 
clustering  against  her  cheeks  had  the  lustre  of  precious 
metal. 

Jingling,  fluttering,  gems  clashing  musically,  the 
Byzantine  dancer,  besieged  by  adorers,  deftly  evaded 
their  pressing  gallantries — evaded  the  Harlequin,  too, 
with  laughing  mockery,  skilfully  disengaging  herself 
from  the  throng  of  suitors  stumbling  around  her, 
crowded  and  buffeted  on  every  side. 

After  her  like  a  flash  sped  Harlequin  :  for  an  instant, 
just  ahead  of  him,  she  appeared  in  plain  sight,  glim 
mering  brightly  against  the  green  and  swaying  tap 
estry  of  living  leaves  and  flowers,  then  even  as  her 

30 


"Jingling,  fluttering,  gems  clashing  musically,  the  Byzantine  dancer, 


CO; 


besieged  by  adorers,  deftly  evaded  their  pressing  gallantries. 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

pursuers  looked  at  her,  she  vanished  before  their  very 
eyes. 

They  ran  about  distractedly  hunting  for  her,  Turk, 
Drum  Major,  Indian  Chief,  and  Charles  the  First,  then 
reluctantly  gave  up  the  quest  and  drifted  off  to  seek  for 
another  ideal.  All  women  are  ideal  under  the  piquant 
promise  of  the  mask. 

A  pretty  shepherdess,  lingering  near,  whispered 
close  to  Quarren's  shoulder  behind  her  fan : 

"  Check  to  you,  Harlequin !  That  golden  dancer 
was  the  only  girl  in  town  who  hasn't  taken  any  pains 
to  meet  you !  " 

He  turned  his  head,  warily,  divining  Molly  Wych- 
erly  under  the  disguise,  realising,  too,  that  she  recog 
nised  him. 

"  You'll  never  find  her  now,"  laughed  the  shep 
herdess.  "  Besides  she  does  not  care  a  rap  about  meet 
ing  a  mere  Harlequin.  It's  refreshing  to  see  you  so 
thoroughly  snubbed  once  in  a  while."  And  she  danced 
gaily  away,  arms  akimbo,  her  garlanded  crook  over  her 
shoulder ;  and  her  taunting  laughter  floated  back  to  him 
where  he  stood  irresolute,  wondering  how  the  golden 
dancer  could  have  so  completely  vanished. 

Suddenly  he  recollected  going  over  the  house  before 
its  completion  with  Jim  Wycherly,  who  had  been  his 
own  architect,  and  the  memory  of  a  certain  peculiarity 
in  the  construction  of  the  ball-room  flashed  into  his 
mind.  The  only  possible  explanation  for  her  disap 
pearance  was  that  somebody  had  pointed  out  to  her  the 
low  door  behind  the  third  pillar,  and  she  was  now  in 
the  gilded  swallow's-nest  aloft. 

It  was  a  whim  of  Wycherly — this  concealed  stair — 
he  recalled  it  perfectly  now — and,  parting  the  living 

31 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

tapestry  of  blossoms,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  ivory  and 
gilded  paneling,  pressing  the  heart  of  one  carved  rose 
after  another,  until  with  a  click !  a  tiny  door  swung  in 
ward,  revealing  a  narrow  spiral  of  stairs,  lighted  rosily 
by  electricity. 

He  stepped  inside,  closed  the  door,  and  listened,  then 
mounted  noiselessly.  Half  way  up  he  caught  the  aroma 
of  a  cigarette ;  and,  a  second  later  he  stepped  out  onto 
a  tiny  latticed  balcony,  completely  screened. 

The  golden  dancer,  who  evidently  had  been  gazing 
down  on  the  carnival  scene  below  from  behind  the  lat 
tice,  whirled  around  to  confront  him  in  a  little  flurry 
of  cigarette  smoke. 

For  a  moment  they  faced  each  other,  then : 

"  How  did  you  know  where  to  find  me,  Harlequin  ?  " 

"  I'd  have  died  if  I  hadn't  found  you,  fairest,  love 
liest " 

"  That  is  no  answer  1     Answer  me !  " 

"Why  did  you  flee?"  he  asked.  "Answer  that, 
first." 

She  glanced  at  her  cigarette  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders : 

"  You  see  why  I  fled,  don't  you?    Now  answer  me." 

The  Harlequin  presented  the  hilt  of  his  sword 
which  was  set  with  a  tiny  mirror. 

"  You  see  why  I  fled  after  you,"  he  said,  "  don't 
you?" 

"  All  the  same,"  she  insisted,  smilingly,  "  I  have  been 
informed  on  excellent  authority  that  I  am  the  only  one, 
except  the  family,  who  knows  of  this  balcony.  And 
here  comes  a  Harlequin  blundering  in!  You  are  not 
Mr.  Wycherly ;  and  you're  certainly  not  Molly." 

"  Alas !    My  ultimate  ends  are  not  as  shapely." 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


"Then  who  are  you?"  She  added,  laughing: 
"  They're  shapely  enough,  too." 

"  I  am  only  a  poor  wandering,  love-smitten  Harle 
quin — "  he  said,  "  scorned,  despised,  and  mocked  by 
beauty 

"  Love-smitten  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Can  you  doubt  it,  now?  " 

She  laughed  gaily  and  leaned  back  against  the  bal 
cony's  velvet  rail: 

"  You  lose  no  time  in  declaring  yourself,  do  you, 
Harlequin? — that  is,  if  you  are  hinting  that  I  have 
smitten  you  with  the  pretty  passion." 

"  Through   and  through,   beautiful  dancer " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  beautiful  under  this 
mask?" 

"  I  know  many  things.  That's  my  compensation  for 
being  only  a  poor  mountebank  of  a  Harlequin — magic 
penetration — the  clairvoyance  of  radium." 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  me  at  the  top  of  those 
cork-screw  stairs  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"Why?" 

"  Inference.  Every  toad  hides  a  jewel  in  its  head. 
So  I  argued  that  somewhere  in  the  ugliness  of  darkest 
Philistia  a  gem  must  be  hidden;  and  I've  searched  for 
years — up  and  down  throughout  the  haunts  of  men 
from  Gath  to  Ascalon.  And — behold !  My  quest  is 
ended  at  your  pretty  feet ! — Rose-Diamond  of  the 
World !  " 

He  sank  lithely  on  one  knee ;  she  laughed  deliciously, 
looking  down  at  his  masked  face. 

"  Who  are  you,  Harlequin? — whose  wits  and  legs 
seem  to  be  equally  supple  and  symmetrical?  " 

33 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Tell  it  not  in  Gath ;  Publish  it  not  in  the  streets 
of  Ascalon ;  I  am  that  man  for  whom  you  were  destined 
before  either  you  or  I  were  born.  Are  you  frightened?  " 

The  Byzantine  dancer  laughed  and  shook  her  head 
till  all  the  golden  metal  on  her  was  set  chiming. 

He  said,  still  on  one  knee  at  her  feet : 

"  Exquisite  phantom  of  an  Empire  dead,  from  what 
emblazoned  sarcophagus  have  you  danced  forth  across 
our  modern  oceans  to  bewitch  the  Philistia  of  to-day? 
Who  clothed  you  in  scarlet  delicately?  Who  put  orna 
ments  of  gold  upon  your  apparel 

"  You  court  me  with  Scripture  as  smoothly  as 
Heaven's  great  Enemy,"  she  said — "  and  to  your  own 
ends,  as  does  he.  Are  you  leagued  with  him,  O  agile 
and  intrusive  Harlequin,  to  steal  away  my  peace  of 
mind?" 

Lithely,  silently  he  leaped  up  to  the  balustrade  and, 
gathering  his  ankles  under  him,  squatted  there,  cross- 
legged,  peering  sideways  at  her  through  the  slanting 
eye-holes. 

"  If  that  screen  behind  you  gives  way,"  she  warned 
him,  "  you  will  have  accomplished  your  last  harlequin 
ade." 

He  glanced  coolly  over  his  shoulder: 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  floor  below,  do  you  suppose?  " 

"  Far  enough  to  make  a  good  harlequin  out  of  a  live 
one,"  she  said.  ..."  Please  be  careful ;  I  really  mean 
it." 

"  Child,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  do  you  suppose  that  I 
mind  falling  a  hundred  feet  or  so  on  my  head?  I've 
already  fallen  infinitely  farther  than  that  this  evening." 

"  And  it  didn't  kill  you  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  clasping 
her  hands,  dramatically. 

34 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  No.  Because  our  destiny  must  first  be  accom 
plished  before  I  die." 

"Ours?" 

"  Yours  and  mine,  pretty  dancer !  I've  already  ful 
filled  my  destiny  by  falling  in  love  with  you  at  first 
sight.  That  was  a  long  fall,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Very.  Am  I  to  fulfil  mine  in  a  similar 
manner  ?  " 

"  You  are." 

"  Will  it— kill  me,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.     Try  it." 

"Will  it  hurt?— this  terrible  fall?  And  how  far 
must  I  descend  to  fall  in  love  with  you?  " 

"  Sometimes  falling  in  love  does  hurt,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  when  the  fall  is  a  long  one." 

"  Is  this  to  be  a  long  one  ?  " 

"  You  may  think  so." 

"  Then  I  decline  to  tumble.  Please  go  somewhere 
about  your  business,  Master  Harlequin.  I'm  inclined 
to  like  you." 

"  Dancer,  my  life's  business  is  wherever  you  happen 
to  be." 

"  Why  are  you  so  sure  ?  " 

"  Magic,"  he  said  seriously.     "  I  deal  in  it." 

"  Wonderful !  Your  accomplishments  overwhelm 
me.  Perhaps,  through  the  aid  of  magic,  you  can  even 
tell  me  who  I  am  I  " 

"  I  think  I  can." 

"  Is  that  another  threat  of  magic?  " 

"  It's  a  bet,  too,  if  you  like." 

"  Are  you  offering  to  bet  me  that,  before  I  unmask, 
you  will  be  able  to  discover  who  I  am?  " 

"  Yes.     Will  you  make  it  a  wager?  " 
35 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

She  stood,  silent,  irresolute,  cautious  but  curious; 
then: 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  can  find  out  who  /  am? 
Now  ?  Here  in  this  balcony  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  That  is  sheer  nonsense,"  she  said  with  decision. 
"  I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like." 

"What  stakes?" 

"  Why  there's  nothing  to  bet  except  the  usual,  is 
there?" 

"You  mean  flowers,  gloves,  stockings,  bon-bons?" 

"  Yes." 

The  Harlequin,  smiling  at  her  askance,  drew  from 
the  hilt  of  his  lathe-sword  a  fresh  cigarette,  lighted  it, 
looked  across  at  the  level  chandelier,  and  sent  a  ring  of 
smoke  toward  the  twinkling  wilderness  of  prisms  hang 
ing  in  mid-air. 

"  Let's  be  original  or  perish,"  he  said.  "  I'll  bet  you 
a  day  out  of  my  life  against  a  day  out  of  yours  that  I 
discover  who  you  are  in  ten  minutes." 

"  I  won't  accept  such  a  silly  wager !  What  would 
you  do  with  me  for  a  day  ?  " 

The  Harlequin  bent  his  masked  head.  Over  his  body 
the  lozenges.of  scarlet  and  gold  slid  crinkling  as  though 
with  suppressed  and  serpentine  mirth. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  she  demanded  half 
vexed,  half  amused. 

"  Your  fears,  pretty  dancer." 

"  I  am  not  afraid !  " 

"  Very  well.  Prove  it !  I  have  offered  to  bet  you 
a  day  out  of  my  life  that  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are.  Are 
you  afraid  to  wager  a  day  out  of  yours  that  I  can't  do 
it?" 

36 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

She  shook  her  head  so  that  the  burnished  locks 
clustered  against  her  cheeks,  and  all  over  her  slim  figure 
the  jingling  gold  rang  melodiously. 

"  I  haven't  long  to  live,"  she  observed.  "  A  day  out 
of  life  is  too  much  to  risk." 

"  Why  don't  you  think  that  you  have  long  to 
live?" 

"  I  haven't.     I  know  it." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  just  know.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  don't  wish  to  live 
very  long." 

"  You  don't  wish  to  live  long?  " 

"  Only  as  long  as  I'm  young  enough  to  be  forgetful. 
Old  age  is  a  horror — in  some  cases.  I  don't  desire  ever 
to  be  forty.  After  forty  they  say  one  lives  on  memory. 
I  don't  wish  to." 

Through  the  slits  of  his  mask  his  curious  eyes 
watched  her  steadily. 

"  You're  not  yet  twenty-four,"  he  said. 

"  Not  quite.     That  is  a  good  guess,  Harlequin." 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  live  to  be  old?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  wish  to." 

"  But  you  are  rather  keen  on  living  while  you're 
young." 

"  I've  never  thought  much  about  it.  If  I  live,  it's 
all  right ;  if  I  die,  I  don't  think  I'll  mind  it.  ...  I'm 
sure  I  shouldn't." 

Her  cigarette  had  gone  out.  She  tossed  it  aside  and 
daintily  consented  to  exchange  cigarettes  with  him, 
offering  her  little  gold  case. 

"  You're  carefully  inspecting  my  initials,  aren't 
you?"  she  observed,  amused.  "But  that  monogram 
will  not  help  you,  Master  Harlequin." 

37 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Marriage  alters  only  the  final  initial.  Are  you,  by 
any  unhappy  chance " 

"  That's  for  you  to  find  out !  I  didn't  say  I  was ! 
I  believe  you  are  making  me  tell  you  things !  " 

She  threw  back  the  lustrous  hair  that  shadowed 
her  cheeks  and  leaned  forward,  her  shadowed  eyes  fixed 
intently  upon  him  through  the  apertures  of  her  golden 
mask. 

"  I'm  beginning  to  wonder  uneasily  who  you  may 
be,  Monsieur  Harlequin !  You  alarm  me  a  little." 

"  Aha !  "  he  said.  "  I've  told  you  I  deal  in  magic ! 
That  you  don't  know  who  I  am,  even  after  that  con 
fession,  makes  me  reasonably  certain  who  you  are." 

"  You're  trying  to  scare  me,"  she  said,  disdainfully. 

"  I'll  do  it,  yet." 

"  I  wonder." 

"  You'll  wonder  more  than  ever  in  a  few  moments. 
.  .  .  I'm  going  to  tell  you  who  you  are.  But  first  of 
all  I  want  you  to  fix  the  forfeit " 

"  Why — I  don't  know.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  of 
me  ?  "  she  asked,  mockingly. 

"  Whatever  you  care  to  risk." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  name  it.  Because  I  don't 
particularly  care  to  offer  you  anything.  .  .  .  And 
please  hasten — I'll  be  missed  presently — 

"  Won't  you  bet  one  day  out  of  your  life?  " 

"  No,  I  won't.     I  told  you  I  wouldn't." 

"  Then — one  hour.     Just  a  single  hour?  " 

"An  hour?" 

"  Yes,  sixty  minutes,  payable  on  demand:  If  I  win,, 
you  will  place  at  my  disposal  one  entire  hour  out  of 
your  life.  Will  you  dare  that  much,  pretty  dancer?  " 

She  laughed,  looked  up  at  him;  then  readjusting; 
38 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

her  mask,  she  nodded  disdainfully.  "  Because,"  she 
observed,  "  it  is  quite  impossible  for,  you  ever  to  guess 
who  I  am.  So  do  your  very  worst." 

He  sprang  from  the  balustrade,  landing  lightly,  his 
left  hand  spread  over  his  heart,  his  bi-corne  flourished 
in  the  other. 

"  You  are  Strelsa  Leeds  !  "  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

The  golden  dancer  straightened  up  to  her  full 
height,  astounded,  and  a  bright  flood  of  colour  stained 
her  cheeks  under  the  mask's  curved  edge. 

"  It — it  is  impossible  that  you  should  know — "  she 
began,  exasperated.  "  How  could  you?  Only  one  per 
son  knew  what  I  was  to  wear  to-night !  I  came  by  my 
self  with  my  maid.  It — it  is  magic !  It  is  infernal — 
abominable  magic " 

She  checked  herself,  still  standing  very  straight,  the 
gorgeous,  blossom-woven  cloth-of-gold  rippling;  the 
jewels  shooting  light  from  the  fillet  that  bound  her 
hair. 

After  a  silence : 

:5  How  did  you  know?  "  she  asked,  striving  to 
smile  through  the  flushed  chagrin.  "  It  is  perfectly 
horrid  of  you — anyhow — 

Curiosity  checked  her  again  ;  she  stood  gazing  at 
him  in  silence,  striving  to  pierce  the  eye-slits  of  that 
black  skin-mask — trying  to  interpret  the  expression  of 
the  mischievous  mobile  mouth  below  it — or,  perhaps 
the  malice  was  all  in  those  slanting  slits  behind  which 
two  strange  eyes  sparkled  steadily  out  at  her  from  the 
shadow. 

"  Strelsa  Leeds,"  he  repeated,  and  flourished  one 
hand  in  graceful  emphasis  as  she  coloured  hotly  again. 
And  he  saw  the  teeth  catch  at  her  under  lip. 

39 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  is  outrageous,"  she  declared.  "  Tell  me  in 
stantly  who  you  are !  " 

"  First,"  he  insisted,  mischievously,  "  I  claim  the 
forfeit." 

"  The— the  forfeit !  "  she  faltered. 

"  Did  you  not  lose  your  wager?  " 

She  nodded  reluctantly,  searching  the  disguised 
features  before  her  in  vain  for  a  clew  to  his  identity. 
Then,  a  trifle  uneasily: 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  lost  my  wager.  But — I  did  not 
clearly  understand  what  you  meant  by  an  hour  out  of 
my  life." 

"  It  is  to  be  an  hour  at  my  disposal,"  he  explained 
with  another  grotesque  bow.  "  I  think  that  was  the 
wager?  " 

"  Y-yes." 

"  Unless,"  he  remarked  carelessly,  "  you  desire  the 
— ah — privilege  and  indisputable  prerogative  of  your 
delightful  sex." 

"The  privilege  of  my  sex?  What  is  that?"  she 
asked,  dangerously  polite. 

"  Why,  to  change  your  divine  mind — repudiate  the 
obligation- 

"  Harlequin ! 

"  Madame  ?  "  with  an  elaborate  and  wriggling  bow. 

"  I  pay  what  I  owe — always.  .  .  .  Always!  Do 
you  understand?  " 

The  Harlequin  bowed  again  in  arabesques,  very  low, 
yet  with  a  singular  and  almost  devilish  grace: 

"  Madame  concedes  that  the  poor  Harlequin  has 
won  his  wager?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do — and  you  don't  appear  to  be  particu 
larly  humble,  either." 

40 


J5 

5J 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Madame  insists  on  paying?  "  he  inquired  suavely. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  do !  "  she  said,  uneasily.  "  I 
promised  you  an  hour  out  of  my  life.  Am  I  to  pay  it 
now?" 

"  You  pay  by  the  minute — one  minute  a  day  for 
sixty  days.  I  am  going  to  take  the  first  minute  now. 
Perhaps  I  may  ask  for  the  other  fifty-nine,  also." 

"How?" 

"  Shall  I  show  you  how?  " 

"  Very  well." 

"  A  magic  pass  or  two,  first,"  he  said  gaily,  crook 
ing  one  spangled  knee  and  spinning  around.  Then  he 
whipped  out  his  lathe-sword,  held  it  above  his  head, 
coolly  passed  a  glittering  arm  around  her  waist,  and 
looked  down  into  her  flushed  face. 

"  You  will  have  to  count  out  the  sixty  seconds,"  he 
said.  "  I  shall  be  otherwise  occupied,  and  I  can't  trust 
myself  to  do  two  things  at  once." 

"  What  are  you  about  to  do  ?  Sink  through  a  trap 
door  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  about  to  salute  you  with  the  magic  kiss* 
After  that  you'll  be  my  Columbine  forever." 

"  That  is  not  included  in  the  bet !  Is  it?  "  she  asked 
in  real  consternation. 

"  I  may  do  as  I  please  with  my  hour,  may  I  not  ?  " 

"  Was  it  the  bet  that  you  were  to  be  at  liberty  to — 
to  kiss  me  ?  " 

"  I  control  absolutely  an  hour  out  of  your  life,  do 
I  not  ?  I  may  use  it  as  I  please.  You  had  better  count 
out  sixty  seconds." 

She  looked  down,  biting  her  lip,  and  touched  one 
hand  against  her  cheeks,  alternately,  as  though  to  cool 
them  with  the  snowy  contact. 

41 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

He  waited  in  silence  for  her  reply. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  resolutely,  "  if  you  elect  to 
use  the  first  minute  of  your  hour  as  frivolously  as  that, 
I  must  submit,  I  suppose." 

And  she  began  to  count  aloud,  rapidly :  "  One,  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  ni — 

Her  face  was  averted ;  he  could  see  the  tip  of  one 
small  ear  all  aflame.  Presently  she  ventured  a  swift 
glance  around  at  him  and  saw  that  he  was  laughing. 

"  Ten,  eleven,  twelve,"  she  counted  nervously,  still 
watching  him ;  "  thirteen,  fourteen,  fifteen — "  panic 
threatened  her;  she  doubled  both  hands  in  the  effort  of 
self-control  and  timed  her  counting  as  though  the  rapid 
beating  of  the  tempo  could  hasten  her  immunity — 
"  sixteen,  seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty,  one, 
two,  three " 

"  Play  fair !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  trying  to.  Can't  I  say  it  that  way  up  to 
ten,  and  then  say  thirty?" 

"  Oh,  certainly.  I've  still  half  a  minute.  You'd 
better  hurry !  I  may  begin  at  any  moment." 

"  Four — five — six — seven  —  m-m-m — thirty  !  "  she 
cried,  and  the  swift  numbers  fled  from  her  lips  fairly 
stumbling  over  one  another,  tumbling  the  sequence  of 
hurrying  numerals  into  one  breathless  gasp  of; 
"  Forty !  " 

His  arm  slid  away  from  her  waist ;  he  stepped  back 
ward,  and  stood,  watching  her,  one  finger  crooked,  sup 
porting  his  chin,  the  ironical  smile  hovering  ever  on 
his  lips. 

"  Fifty !  "  she  counted  excitedly,  her  hands  beating 
time  to  the  counting;  " — fifty-one — two — three — four 
— m-m-m — sixty  !  " — and  she  whirled  around  to  face 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

him  with  an  impulsively  triumphant  gesture  which  ter 
minated  in  a  swift  curtsey,  arms  flung  wide  apart. 

"  Voila!  "  she  said,  breathlessly,  "  I've  paid  my  bet ! 
Am  I  not  a  good  sport,  Harlequin?  Own  that  I  am 
and  I  will  forgive  your  outrageous  impudence !  " 

"  You  are  a  most  excellent  sport,  madame ! "  he 
conceded,  grinning. 

Relief  from  the  tension  cooled  her  cheeks ;  she 
laughed  bewitchingly  and  looked  at  him,  exultant,  un 
afraid. 

"  I  frightened  you  well  with  my  desperate  counting, 
didn't  I?  You  completely  forgot  to  do — anything, 
didn't  you  ?  Voyons  !  Admit  it !  " 

"  You  completely  terrorized  me,"  he  admitted. 

"  Besides,"  she  said,  "  while  I  was  so  busily  counting 
the  seconds  aloud  you  couldn't  very  well  have  kissed  me, 
could  you?  That  was  strategy.  You  couldn't  have 
managed  it,  could  you?  " 

"  Not  very  easily." 

"  I  really  did  nonplus  you,  didn't  I  ?  "  she  insisted, 
aware  of  his  amusement. 

"  Oh,  entirely,"  he  said.  "  I  became  an  abject 
idiot." 

She  stood  breathing  more  evenly  now,  the  pretty 
colour  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks.  Considering 
him,  looking  alternately  at  his  masked  eyes  and  at  his 
expressive  lips  where  a  kind  of  silent  and  infernal  mirth 
still  flickered,  a  sudden  doubt  assailed  her.  And  pres 
ently,  with  a  dainty  shrug,  she  turned  and  glanced 
down  through  the  gilt  lattice  toward  the  floor  below. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  tauntingly,  "  you  hope  I'll 
believe  that  you  refrained  from  kissing  me  out  of  some 
belated  consideration  for  decency.  But  I  know  per- 

43 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

fectly  well  that  I  perplexed  you,  and  confused  you  and 
intimidated  you." 

"  This  is,  of  course,  the  true  solution  of  my  motives 
in  not  kissing  you." 

She  turned  toward  him : 

"What  motive?" 

"  My  motive  for  not  kissing  you.  My  only  motive 
was  consideration  for  you,  and  for  the  sacred  conven 
tions  of  Sainte  Grundy." 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  scornfully,  "  you  are  really 
trying  to  make  me  think  that  you  could  have  done  it, 
and  didn't!" 

"  You  are  too  clever  to  believe  me  a  martyr  to  prin 
ciple,  madame !" 

She  looked  at  him,  stamped  her  foot  till  the  bangles 
clashed. 

"Why  didn't  you  kiss  me,  then? — if  you  wish  to 
»poil  my  victory?  " 

"  You  yourself  have  told  me  why." 

"  Am  I  wrong?  Could  you — didn't  I  surprise  you 
— in  fact,  paralyse  you — with  astonishment  ?  " 

He  laughed  delighted;  and  she  stamped  her  ring 
ing  foot  again. 

"  I  see,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  supposed  to  be  doubly  in 
your  debt,  now.  I'd  rather  you  had  kissed  me  and  we 
were  quits !  " 

"  It  isn't  too  late  you  know." 

"  It  is  too  late.     It's  all  over." 

"  Madame,  I  have  fifty-nine  other  minutes  in  which 
to  meet  your  kindly  expressed  wishes.  Did  you  for- 
get?  " 

"  What !  "  she  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"  One  hour  less  one  minute  is  still  coming  to  me." 
44 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Am  I — have  I — is  this  ridiculous  performance  go 
ing  to  happen  again  ?  "  she  asked,  appalled. 

"  Fifty-nine  times,"  he  laughed,  doubling  one  span 
gled  leg  under  the  other  and  whirling  on  his  toe  till 
he  resembled  a  kaleidoscopic  teetotum.  Then  he  drew 
his  sword,  cut  right  and  left,  slapped  it  back  into  its 
sheath,  and  bowed  his  wriggling  bow,  one  hand  over 
his  heart. 

"  Don't  look  so  troubled,  madame,"  he  said.  "  I 
release  you  from  your  debt.  You  need  never  pay  me 
what  you  owe  me." 

Up  went  her  small  head,  fiercely,  under  its  flashing 
hair: 

"  Thank  you.     I  pay  my  debts !  "  she  sai J  crisply. 

"  You  decline  to  accept  your  release?  " 

"Yes,  I   do!— from  you!" 

66  You'll  see  this  thing  through! — if  it  takes  all  win 
ter?  " 

"  Of  course ;"  trying  to  smile,  and  not  succeeding. 

He  touched  her  arm  and  pointed  out  across  the  hot, 
perfumed  gulf  to  the  gilded  clock  on  high: 

"  You  have  seen  it  through !  It  is  now  one  minute 
to  midnight.  We  have  been  here  exactly  one  hour, 
lacking  a  minute,  since  our  bet  was  on.  .  .  .  AnJ 
I've  wanted  to  kiss  you  all  the  while." 

Confused,  she  looked  at  the  clock  under  its  elaborate 
azure  and  ormolu  foliations,  then  turned  toward  him, 
still  uncertain  of  her  immunity. 

"  Bo  you  mean  that  you  have  really  used  the  hour 
as  you  saw  fit?"  she  asked.  "Have  I  done  my  part 
honestly  ? — Like  a  good  sportsman  ?  Have  I  really  ?  " 

He  bowed,  laughingly: 

"  I  cheerfully  concede  it.     You  are  a  good  sport." 
45 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"And— all  that  time—"  she  began— "  all  that 
time- 

"  I  had  my  chances — sixty  of  them." 

"  And  didn't  take  them?  " 

"  Only  wanted  to— but  didn't." 

"  You  think  that  I " 

"  A  woman  never  forgets  a  man  who  has  kissed  her. 
I  took  the  rather  hopeless  chance  that  you  might  re 
member  me  without  that.  But  it's  a  long  shot.  I  ex 
pect  that  you'll  forget  me." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  remember  you?  "  she  asked, 
curiously. 

"  Yes.     But  you  won't." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  know — from  the  expression  of  your  mouth,  per 
haps.  You  are  too  pretty,  too  popular  to  remember  a 
poor  Harlequin." 

"  But  you  never  have  seen  my  face  ?     Have  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  why  do  you  continually  say  that  I  am 
pretty?" 

"  I  can  divine  what  you  must  be." 

"  Then — how — why  did  you  refrain  from — "  She 
laughed  lightly,  and  looked  up  at  him,  mockingly. 
"  Really,  Harlequin,  you  are  funny.  Do  you  realise 
it?" 

She  laughed  again  and  the  slight  flush  came  back 
into  her  cheeks. 

"  But  you're  nice,  anyway.  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  you 
had  seen  my  face  you  might  have  let  me  go  unkissed  all 
the  quicker.  .  .  .  Masks  cover  horrible  surprises.  .  .  . 
And,  then  again,  if  you  had  seen  it,  perhaps  you  might 
never  have  let  me  go  at  all !  "  she  added,  audaciously. 

46 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

In  the  gilded  balcony  opposite,  the  orchestra  had 
now  ceased  playing;  the  whirl  and  noise  of  the  dancers 
filled  the  immense  momentary  quiet.  Then  soft  chimes 
from  the  great  clock  sounded  midnight  amid  cries  of, 
"  Unmask !  masks  off,  everybody  !  " 

The  Harlequin  turned  and  drawing  the  black  vizard 
from  his  face,  bent  low  and  saluted  her  hand;  and  she, 
responding  gaily  with  a  curtsey,  looked  up  into  the 
features  of  an  utter  stranger. 

She  stood  silent  a  moment,  the  surprised  smile 
stamped  on  her  lips ;  then,  in  her  turn,  she  slipped  the 
mask  from  her  eyes. 

"  Voila!  "  she  cried.     "  Cest  moil  " 

After  a  moment  he  said,  half  to  himself ; 

"  I  knew  well  enough  that  you  must  be  unusual. 
But  I  hadn't  any  idea — any — idea " 

"  Then — you  are  not  disappointed  in  me,  mon 
sieur?  ' 

"  My  only  regret  is  that  I  had  my  hour,  and  wasted 
it.  Those  hours  never  sound  twice  for  wandering  harle 
quins." 

"  Poor  Harlequin !  "  she  said  saucily — "  I'm  sorry, 
but  even  your  magic  can't  recall  a  vanished  hour! 
Poor,  poor  Harlequin!  You  were  too  generous  to 
me!" 

"  And  now  you  are  going  to  forget  me,"  he  said. 
"  That  is  to  be  my  reward." 

"  Why — I  don't  think — I  don't  expect  to  forget 
you.  I  suppose  I  am  likely  to  know  you  some  day.  .  .  . 
Who  are  you,  please?  Somebody  very  grand  in  New 
York?" 

"  My  name  is  Quarren." 

There  was  a  silence ;  she  glanced  down  at  the  ball- 
47 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

room  floor  through  the  lattice  screen,  then  slowly  turned 
around  to  look  at  him  again. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  me?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  disappointed?  " 

"  Y-es.  Pleasantly.  ...  I  supposed  you  to  be — 
different." 

He  laughed: 

"  Has  the  world  been  knocking  me  very  dreadfully 
to  you,  Mrs.  Leeds  ?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  One's  impressions  form  without  any 
reason — and  vaguely — from — nothing  in  particular. 
— I  thought  you  were  a  very  different  sort  of  man. — 
I  am  glad  you  are  not." 

"  That  is  charming  of  you." 

"  It's  honest.  I  had  no  desire  to  meet  the  type  of 
man  I  supposed  you  to  be.  Am  I  too  frank?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  but  I'm  horribly 
afraid  that  I  really  am  the  kind  of  man  you  imagined 
me." 

"  You  are  not." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  pretty  head,  "  you 
can't  be." 

He  said,  quoting  her  own  words  amiably :  "  I'm 
merely  one  of  the  necessary  incidents  of  any  social  en 
vironment — like  flowers  and  champagne " 

"  Mr.  Quarren  !  " 

In  her  distress  she  laid  an  impulsive  hand  on  his 
sleeve;  he  lifted  it,  laid  it  across  the  back  of  his  own 
hand,  and  bowing,  saluted  it  lightly,  gaily. 

"  I  am  not  offended,"  he  said ;  " — I  am  what  you 
supposed  me." 

48 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Please  don't  say  it !  You  are  not.  I  didn't  know 
you;  I  was — prejudiced ' 

"  You'll  find  me  out  sooner  or  later,"  he  said  laugh 
ing,  "  so  I  might  as  well  admit  that  your  cap  fitted  me." 

"  It  doesn't  fit !  "  she  retorted ;  "  I  was  a  perfect 
fool  to  say  that !  " 

"  As  long  as  you  like  me,"  he  returned,  "  does  it 
make  any  difference  what  I  am?  " 

"  Of  course  it  does !  I'm  not  likely  to  find  a  man 
agreeable  unless  he's  worth  noticing." 

"Ami?" 

"  Oh,  gentle  angler,  I  refuse  to  nibble.  Be  con 
tent  that  an  hour  out  of  my  life  has  sped  very  swiftly 
in  your  company !  " 

She  turned  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  little  gilt  door. 
He  opened  it  for  her. 

"  You've  been  very  nice  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  won't 
forget  you." 

"  You'll  certainly  forget  me  for  that  very  reason. 
If  I  hadn't  been  nice  I'd  have  been  the  exception.  And 
you  would  have  remembered." 

She  said  with  an  odd  smile : 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  pleasant  things  have  been 
so  common  in  my  life  that  only  the  unpleasant  episode 
makes  any  impression  on  my  memory?  " 

"  To  really  remember  me  as  I  want  you  to,  you 
ought  to  have  had  something  unpardonable  to  forgive 
me." 

"  Perhaps  I  have !  "  she  said,  daringly ;  and  slipped 
past  him  and  down  the  narrow  stairs,  her  loup-mask 
fluttering  from  her  elbow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  turned,  looking  back 
at  him  over  her  bare  shoulder : 

49 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I've  mortally  offended  at  least  three  important 
men  by  hiding  up  there  with  you.  That  is  conceding 
something  to  your  attractions,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Everything.  Will  you  let  me  find  you  some  supper 
— and  let  the  mortally  offended  suitors  sit  and  whistle 
a  bit  longer?  " 

"  Poor  suitors — they've  probably  been  performing 
heel-tattoos  for  an  hour.  .  .  .  Very  well,  then — I  feel 
unusually  shameless  to-night — and  I'll  go  with  you. 
But  don't  be  disagreeable  to  me  if  a  neglected  and 
glowering  young  man  rushes  up  and  drags  me  away  by 
the  back  hair." 

"Who  for  example?" 

"  Barent  Van  Dyne,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  we'll  side-step  that  youthful  Knickerbocker," 
said  Quarren,  gaily.  "  Leave  it  to  me,  Mrs.  Leeds." 

"  To  behave  so  outrageously  to  Mr.  Van  Dyne  is 
peculiarly  horrid  and  wicked  of  me,"  she  said.  "  But 
you  don't  realise  that — and — the  fact  remains  that  you 
did  not  take  your  forfeit.  And  I've  a  lot  to  make  up 
for  that,  haven't  I?  "  she  added  so  naively  that  they 
both  gave  way  to  laughter  unrestrained. 

The  light  touch  of  her  arm  on  his,  now  guiding  him 
amid  the  noisy,  rollicking  throngs,  now  yielding  to  his 
guidance,  ceased  as  he  threaded  a  way  through  the  crush 
to  a  corner,  and  seated  her  at  a  table  for  two. 

In  a  few  moments  he  came  back  with  all  kinds  of 
delectable  things;  went  for  more,  returned  laden, 
shamelessly  pulled  several  palms  between  them  and  the 
noisy  outer  world,  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

With  napkin  and  plate  on  the  low  table  beside  her, 
she  permitted  him  to  serve  her.  As  he  filled  her  cham 
pagne  glass  she  lifted  it  and  looked  across  it  at  him : 

50 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"How  did  you  discover  my  identity?"  she  asked. 
"  I'm  devoured  by  curiosity." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  Please." 

"  I'll  take  a  tumble  in  your  estimation  if  I  tell  you." 

"  I  don't  think  you  will.      Try  it  anyway." 

"  Very  well  then.      Somebody  told  me." 

"  And  you  let  me  bet  with  you !  And  you  bet  on  a 
certainty!  " 

"  I  did." 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed  reproachfully,  "  is  that  good 
sportsmanship,  Mr.  Quarren?" 

"  No ;  very  bad.  And  that  was  why  I  didn't  take 
the  forfeit.  Now  you  understand." 

She  sat  considering  him,  the  champagne  breaking  in 
her  glass. 

"  Yes,  I  do  understand  now.  A  good  sportsman 
couldn't  take  a  forfeit  which  he  won  betting  on  a  cer 
tainty.  .  .  .  That  wasn't  a  real  wager,  was  it?  " 

"  No,  it  wasn't." 

"  If  it  had  been,  I — I  don't  suppose  you'd  have  let 
me  go." 

"Indeed  not!" 

They  laughed,  watching  each  other,  curiously. 

"  Which  ought  to  teach  me  never  again  to  make  any 
such  highly  original  and  sporting  wagers,"  she  said. 
"  Anyway,  you  were  perfectly  nice  about  it.  Of  course 
you  couldn't  very  well  have  been  otherwise.  Tell  me, 
did  you  really  suppose  me  to  be  attractive?  You 
couldn't  judge.  How  could  you — under  that  mask?  " 

"  Do  you  think  that  your  mouth  could  have  pos 
sibly  belonged  to  any  other  kind  of  a  face  except  your 
own  ?  "  he  said  coolly. 

51 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Is  my  mouth  unusual?  " 

"  Very." 

"  How  is  it  unusual  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  analysed  the  matter,  but  it  is  somehow 
so  indescribable  that  I  guessed  very  easily  what  the 
other  features  must  be." 

"  Oh,  flattery !  Oh,  impudence !  Do  you  remember 
when  Falstaff  said  that  the  lion  could  always  recognise 
the  true  prince?  Shame  on  you,  Mr.  Quarren.  You 
are  not  only  a  very  adroit  flatterer  but  a  perfectly  good 
sportsman  after  all — and  the  most  gifted  tormentor 
I  ever  knew  in  all  my  life.  And  I  like  you  fine !  "  She 
laughed,  and  made  a  quick  little  gesture,  partly  ar 
rested  as  he  met  her  more  than  half  way,  touching 
the  rim  of  his  glass  to  hers.  "  To  our  friendship," 
he  said. 

"  Our  friendship,"  she  repeated,  gaily,  "  if  the  gods 
speed  it." 

"  — And — its  consequences,"  he  added.  "  Don't 
forget  those." 

"  What  are  they  likely  to  be?  " 

"Who  knows?  That's  the  gamble!  But  let  us 
recognise  all  kinds  of  possibilities,  and  drink  to  them, 
too.  Shall  we?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  consequences  of  friend 
ship?  "  she  repeated,  hesitating. 

"  That  is  the  interesting  thing  about  a  new  friend 
ship,"  he  explained.  "  Nobody  can  ever  predict  what 
the  consequences  are  to  be.  Are  you  afraid  to  drink  to 
the  sporting  chances,  hazards,  accidents,  and  possibil 
ities  of  our  new  friendship,  Mrs.  Leeds  ?  That  is  a  per 
fectly  good  sporting  proposition." 

She  considered  him,  interested,  her  eyes  full  of  smil- 
52 


'To  our  new  friendship,  Monsieur 


Harlequin!*  she  said  lightly.' 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ing  curiosity,  perfectly  conscious  of  the  swift  challenge 
of  his  lifted  glass. 

After  a  few  seconds'  hesitation  she  struck  the  ring 
ing  rim  of  her  glass  against  his : 

"  To  our  new  friendship,  Monsieur  Harlequin !  "  she 
said  lightly — "  with  every  sporting  chance,  worldly 
hazard,  and  heavenly  possibility  in  it !  " 

For  the  first  time  the  smile  faded  from  his  face,  and 
something  in  his  altered  features  arrested  her  glass  at 
her  very  lips. 

"  How  suddenly  serious  you  seem,"  she  said.  "  Have 
I  said  anything?  " 

He  drained  his  glass ;  after  a  second  she  tasted  hers, 
looked  at  him,  finished  it,  still  watching  him. 

"  Really,"  she  said ;  "  you  made  me  feel  for  a  mo 
ment  as  though  you  and  I  were  performing  a  solemn 
rite.  That  was  a  new  phase  of  you  to  me — that  ex 
ceedingly  sudden  and  youthful  gravity." 

He  remained  silent.  Into  his  mind,  just  for  a  sec 
ond,  and  while  in  the  act  of  setting  the  glass  to  his  lips, 
there  had  flashed  a  flicker  of  pale  clairvoyance.  It 
seemed  to  illumine  something  within  him  which  he  had 
never  believed  in — another  self. 

For  that  single  instant  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  it, 
then  it  faded  like  a  spark  in  a  confused  dream. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  gravely  across  at 
Strelsa  Leeds ;  and  level-eyed,  smiling,  inquisitive,  she 
returned  his  gaze. 

Could  this  brief  contact  with  her  have  evoked  in 
him  a  far-buried  something  which  had  never  before  given 
sign  of  existence  ?  And  could  it  have  been  anything  re 
sembling  aspiration  that  had  glimmered  so  palely  out 
of  an  ordered  and  sordid  commonplace  personality 

53 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

which,  with  all  its  talent  for  frivolity,  he  had  accepted 
as  his  own? 

Without  reason  a  slight  flush  came  into  his  cheeks. 

"  Why  do  you  regard  me  so  owlishly  ?  "  she  asked, 
amused.  "  I  repeat  that  you  made  me  feel  as  though 
we  were  performing  a  sort  of  solemn  rite  when  we  drank 
our  toast." 

"  You  couldn't  feel  that  way  with  such  a  thoroughly 
frivolous  man  as  I  am.  Could  you?  " 

"  I'm  rather  frivolous  myself,"  she  admitted,  laugh 
ing.  "  I  really  can't  imagine  why  you  made  me  feel  so 
serious — or  why  you  looked  as  though  you  were.  I've 
no  talent  for  solemnity.  Have  you?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said.  "  What  a  terrible  din 
everybody  is  making!  How  hot  and  stifling  it  is  here 
— with  all  those  cloying  gardenias.  ...  A  man  said, 
this  evening,  that  this  sort  of  thing  makes  for  an 
archy.  .  .  .  It's  rather  beastly  of  me  to  sit  here  criti 
cising  my  host's  magnificence.  .  .  .  Do  you  know — it's 
curious,  too — but  I  wish  that,  for  the  next  hour  or  two, 
you  and  I  were  somewhere  alone  under  a  good  wide  sky 
— where  there  was  no  noise.  It's  an  odd  idea,  isn't  it, 
Mrs.  Leeds.  And  probably  you  don't  share  it  with 
me." 

She  remained  silent,  thoughtful,  her  violet-gray 
eyes  humorously  considering  him. 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't?"  she  said  at  last. 
"  I'm  not  enamoured  of  noise,  either." 

"  There's  another  thing,"  he  went  on,  smiling — • 
"  it's  rather  curious,  too — but  somehow  I've  a  sort  of 
a  vague  idea  that  I've  a  lot  of  things  to  talk  to  you 
about.  It's  odd,  isn't  it?" 

"Well  you  know,"  she  reminded  him,  "you  couldn't 
54 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

very  well  have  a  lot  of  things  to  talk  to  me  about  con 
sidering  the  fact  that  we've  known  each  other  only  an 
hour  or  so." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  logical.  .  .  .  And  yet,  there's  that 
inexplicable  sensation  of  being  on  the  verge  of  fairly 
bursting  into  millions  of  words  for  your  benefit — words 
which  all  my  life  have  been  bottled  up  in  me,  accumulat 
ing,  waiting  for  this  opportunity." 

They  both  were  laughing,  yet  already  a  slight  ten 
sion  threatened  both — had  menaced  them,  vaguely,  from 
the  very  first.  It  seemed  to  impend  ever  so  slightly,  like 
a  margin  of  faintest  shadow  edging  sunlight ;  yet  it  was 
always  there. 

"  I  haven't  time  for  millions  of  words  this  evening," 
she  said.  "  Won't  some  remain  fresh  and  sparkling  and 
epigrammatic  until — until — 

"  To-morrow?     They'll  possibly  keep  that  long." 

"  I  didn't  say  to-morrow." 

"  I  did." 

"  I'm  perfectly  aware  of  the  subtle  suggestion  and 
subtler  flattery,  Mr.  Quarren." 

"  Then,  may  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Utterly  impossible — pitiably  hopeless.  You  see 
I  am  frank  about  the  heart-rending  disappointment  it 
is  to  me — and  must  be  to  you.  But  after  I  am  awake  I 
am  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Lannis.  And  there's  no  room 
for  you  in  that  pretty  cradle." 

"The  next  day,  then?" 

"  We're  going  to  Florida  for  three  weeks." 

"You?" 

"  Molly  and  Jim  and  I." 

"Palm  Beach?" 

"  Ultimately." 

55 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"And  then?" 

"  Oh !  Have  you  the  effrontery  to  tell  me  to  my 
face  that  you'll  be  in  the  same  mind  about  me  three 
weeks  hence?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know — what  to  expect — of  you,  of  my 
self,"  he  said  so  quietly  that  she  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Mr.  Quarren !  Are  you  a  sentimental  man  ?  I  had 
mentally  absolved  you  from  that  preconception  of 
mine — among  other  apparently  unmerited  ideas  concern 
ing  you." 

"  I  suppose  you'll  arise  and  flee  if  I  tell  you  that 
you're  different  from  other  women,"  he  said. 

"  You  wouldn't  be  such  an  idiot  as  to  tell  me  that, 
would  you?  " 

"  I  might  be.  I'm  just  beginning  to  realise  my  ca 
pacity  for  imbecility.  You're  different  in  this  way  any 
how  ;  no  woman  ever  before  induced  me  to  pull  a  solemn 
countenance." 

"  I  don't  induce  you !     I  ask  you  not  to." 

"  I  try  not  to ;  but,  somehow,  there's  something  so 
— so  real  about  you " 

"  Are  you  accustomed  to  foregather  with  the  dis 
embodied?  " 

"  I'm  beginning  to  think  that  my  world  is  rather 
thickly  populated  with  ghosts — phantoms  of  a  more 
real  world." 

He  looked  at  her  soberly;  she  had  thought  him 
younger  than  he  now  seemed.  A  slight  irritation  si 
lenced  her  for  a  moment,  then,  impatiently: 

"  You  speak  cynically  and  I  dislike  it.  What  rea 
son  have  you  to  express  world-weary  sentiments? — you 

56 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

who  are  young,  who  probably  have  never  known  real 
sorrow,  deep  unhappiness !  I  have  little  patience  with 
a  morbid  view  of  anything,  Mr.  Quarren.  I  merely  warn 
you — in  the  event  of  your  ever  desiring  to  obtain  my 
good  graces." 

"  I  do  desire  them." 

"  Then  be  yourself." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  am.  I  /thought  I  knew. 
Your  advent  has  disorganised  both  my  complacency 
and  my  resignation." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Must  I  answer?" 

"  Of  course !  "  she  said,  laughing. 

"  Then — the  Harlequin  who  followed  you  up  those 
stairs,  never  came  down  again." 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  unenlightened. 

"  I'm  wondering  who  it  was  who  came  down  out  of 
that  balcony  in  the  wake  of  the  golden  dancer,"  he 
added. 

"  You  and  I — you  very  absurd  young  man.  What 
are  you  trying  to  say  ?  " 

"  I — wonder,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  what  I  am  trying 
to  say." 


CHAPTER    III 

SUNSHINE  illuminated  the  rose-silk  curtains  of  Mrs. 
Leeds's  bedroom  with  parallel  slats  of  light  and  cast 
a  frail  and  tremulous  net  of  gold  across  her  bed.  The 
sparrows  in  the  Japanese  ivy  seemed  to  be  unusually 
boisterous,  and  their  persistent  metallic  chatter  dis 
turbed  Strelsa  who  presently  unclosed  her  gray  eyes 
upon  her  own  reflected  features  in  the  wall-glass 
opposite. 

Face  still  flushed  with  slumber,  she  lay x  there  con 
sidering  her  mirrored  features  with  humorous,  sleepy 
eyes ;  then  she  sat  up,  stretched  her  arms,  yawned, 
patted  her  red  lips  with  her  palm,  pressed  her  knuckles 
over  her  eyelids,  and  presently  slipped  out  of  bed.  Her 
bath  was  ready ;  so  was  her  maid. 

A  little  later,  cross-legged  on  the  bed  once  more, 
she  sat  sipping  her  chocolate  and  studying  the  morning 
papers  with  an  interest  and  satisfaction  un jaded. 

Coupled  with  the  naive  curiosity  of  a  kitten  re 
mained  her  unspoiled  capacity  for  pleasure,  and  the 
interest  of  a  child  in  a  world  unfolding  daily  in  a  se 
quence  of  miracles  under  her  intent  and  delighted  eyes. 

Bare  of  throat  and  arm  and  shoulder,  the  lustrous 
hair  shadowing  her  face,  she  now  appeared  unexpectedly 
frail,  even  thin,  as  though  the  fuller  curves  of  the  mould 
in  which  she  was  being  formed  had  not  yet  been  filled 
up. 

58 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Fully  dressed,  gown  and  furs  lent  to  her  something 
of  a  youthful  maturity  which  was  entirely  deceptive; 
for  here,  in  bed,  the  golden  daylight  revealed  childish 
contours  accented  so  delicately  that  they  seemed  almost 
sexless.  And  in  her  intent  gray  eyes  and  in  her  un 
developed  mind  was  all  that  completed  the  bodily  and 
mental  harmony — youth  unawakened  as  yet  except  to 
a  confused  memory  of  pain — and  the  dreamy  and 
passionless  unconsciousness  of  an  unusually  late  ado 
lescence. 

At  twenty-four  Strelsa  still  looked  upon  her  morn 
ing  chocolate  with  a  healthy  appetite ;  and  the  excite 
ment  of  seeing  her  own  name  and  picture  in  the  daily 
press  had  as  yet  lost  none  of  its  delightful  thrill. 

All  the  morning  papers  reported  the  Wycherlys' 
house-warming  with  cloying  detail.  And  she  adored  it. 
What  paragraphs  particularly  concerned  herself,  her 
capable  maid  had  enclosed  in  inky  brackets.  These 
Strelsa  read  first  of  all,  warm  with  pleasure  at  every 
stereotyped  tribute  to  her  loveliness. 

The  comments  she  perused  were  of  all  sorts,  even 
the  ungrammatical  sort,  but  she  read  them  all  with 
profound  interest,  and  loved  every  one,  even  the  most 
fulsome.  For  life,  and  its  kinder  experience,  was  just 
beginning  for  her  after  a  shabby  childhood,  a  lonely 
girlhood,  and  a  marriage  unspeakable,  the  memory  of 
which  already  had  become  to  her  as  vaguely  poignant 
as  the  dull  recollection  of  a  nightmare. 

So  her  appetite  for  kindness,  even  the  newspaper 
variety,  was  keen  and  not  at  all  discriminating;  and  the 
reaction  from  two  years'  solitude — two  years  of  en 
durance,  of  shrinking  from  public  comment — had  de 
veloped  in  her  a  fierce  longing  for  pleasure  and  for 

59 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

play-fellows.  Her  fellow-men  had  responded  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  still  surprised  her  delightfully  at 
moments. 

The  clever  Swedish  maid  now  removed  the  four- 
legged  tray  from  her  knees ;  Strelsa,  propped  on  her 
pillows,  was  still  intent  on  her  newspapers,  satisfying 
a  natural  curiosity  concerning  what  the  world  thought 
about  her  costume  of  the  night  before,  her  beauty, 
herself,  and  the  people  she  knew.  At  last,  agreeably 
satiated,  she  lowered  the  newspaper  and  lay  back, 
dreamy-eyed,  faintly  smiling,  lost  in  pleasant  retro 
spection. 

Had  she  really  appeared  as  charming  last  night  as 
these  exceedingly  kind  New  York  newspapers  pre 
tended?  Did  this  jolly  world  really  consider  her  so 
beautiful?  She  wished  to  believe  it.  She  tried  to.  Per 
haps  it  was  really  true — because  all  these  daily  para 
graphs,  which  had  begun  with  her  advent  into  certain 
New  York  sets,  must  really  have  been  founded  on  some 
thing  unusual  about  her. 

And  it  could  not  be  her  fortune  which  continued  to 
inspire  such  journalistic  loyalty  and  devotion,  because 
she  had  none — scarcely  enough  money  in  fa^t  to  man 
age  with,  dress  with,  pay  her  servants,  and  maintain  her 
pretty  little  house  in  the  East  Eighties. 

It  could  not  be  her  wit;  she  had  no  more  than  the 
average  American  girl.  Nor  was  there  anything  else 
in  her — neither  her  cultivation,  attainments,  nor  tal 
ents — to  entitle  her  to  distinction.  So  apparently  it 
must  be  her  beauty  that  evoked  paragraphs  which  had 
already  made  her  a  fashion  in  the  metropolis — was 
making  her  a  cult — even  perhaps  a  notoriety. 

60 


"Strelsa,  propped  on  her  pillows, 


was  still  intent  on  her  newspapers." 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Because  those  people  who  had  personally  known 
Reginald  Leeds,  were  exceedingly  curious  concerning 
this  young  girl  who  had  been  a  nobody,  as  far  as  New 
York  was  concerned,  until  her  name  became  legally 
coupled  with  the  name  of  one  of  the  richest  and  most 
dissipated  scions  of  an  old  and  honourable  New  York 
family. 

The  public  which  had  read  with  characteristic  eager 
ness  all  about  the  miserable  finish  of  Reginald  Leeds, 
found  its  abominable  curiosity  piqued  by  his  youthful 
widow's  appearance  in  town. 

It  is  the  newspapers'  business  to  give  the  public 
what  it  wants — at  least  that  appears  to  be  the  popular 
impression;  and  so  they  gave  the  public  all  it  wanted 
about  Strelsa  Leeds,  in  daily  chunks.  And  then  some. 
Which,  in  the  beginning,  she  shrank  from,  horrified, 
frightened,  astonished — because,  in  the  beginning, 
every  mention  of  her  name  was  coupled  with  a  glossary 
in  full  explanation  of  who  she  was,  entailing  a  condensed 
review  of  a  sordid  story  which,  for  two  years,  she  had 
striven  to  obliterate  from  her  mind.  But  these  post 
mortems  lasted  only  a  week  or  so.  Except  for  a  spo 
radic  eruption  of  the  case  in  a  provincial  paper  now  and 
then,  which  somebody  always  thoughtfully  sent  to  her, 
the  press  finally  let  the  tragedy  alone,  contenting  its 
intellectual  public  with  daily  chronicles  of  young  Mrs. 
Leeds's  social  activities. 

A  million  boarding  houses  throughout  the  land, 
read  about  her  beauty  with  avidity ;  and  fat  old  women 
in  soiled  pink  wrappers  began  to  mention  her  intimately 
to  each  other  as  "  Strelsa  Leeds  " — the  first  hall-mark  of 
social  fame — and  there  was  loud  discussion,  in  a  million 
huirble  homes,  about  the  fashionable  men  who  were  pay- 

61 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ing  her  marked  attention ;  and  the  chances  she  had  for 
bagging  earls  and  dukes  were  maintained  and  com 
bated,  below  stairs  and  above,  with  an  eagerness,  envy, 
and  back-stairs  knowledge  truly  and  profoundly  demo 
cratic. 

Her  morning  mail  had  begun  to  assume  almost  fash 
ionable  proportions,  but  she  could  not  yet  reconcile  her 
self  to  the  idea  of  even  such  a  clever  maid  as  her  own 
assuming  power  of  social  secretary.  So  she  still  read 
and  answered  all  her  letters — or  rather  neglected  to 
notice  the  majority,  which  invested  her  with  a  kind  of 
awe  to  some  and  made  others  furious  and  unwillingly 
respectful. 

Letters,  bills,  notes,  invitations,  advertisements 
were  scattered  over  the  bedclothes  as  she  lay  there, 
thinking  over  the  pleasures  and  excitement  of  last 
night's  folly — thinking  of  Quarren,  among  others,  and 
of  the  swift  intimacy  that  had  sprung  up  between 
them — like  a  witch-flower  over  night — thinking  of  her 
imprudence,  and  of  the  cold  displeasure  of  Barent  Van 
Dyne  who,  toward  daylight,  had  found  her  almost  nose 
to  nose  with  Quarren,  absorbed  in  exchanging  with  that 
young  man  ideas  and  perfectly  futile  notions  about 
everything  on  top,  inside,  and  underneath  the  habitable 
globe. 

She  blushed  as  she  remembered  her  flimsy  excuses  to 
Van  Dyne — she  had  the  grace  to  blush  over  that  mem 
ory — and  how  any  of  the  dignity  incident  to  the  occa 
sion  had  been  all  Van  Dyne's — and  how,  as  she  took 
his  irreproachable  arm  and  parted  ceremoniously  with 
Quarren,  she  had  imprudently  extended  her  hand  behind 
her  as  her  escort  bore  her  away — a  childish  impulse — 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

the  innocent  coquetry  of  a  village  belle — she  flushed 
again  at  the  recollection — and  at  the  memory  of  Quar- 
ren's  lips  on  her  finger-tips — and  how  her  hand  had 
closed  on  the  gardenia  he  pressed  into  it 

She  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow ;  the  flower  she 
had  taken  from  him  lay  beside  her  on  her  night  table, 
limp,  discoloured,  malodorous ;  and  she  picked  it  up, 
daintily,  and  flung  it  into  the  fireplace. 

At  the  same  moment  the  telephone  rang  downstairs 
in  the  library.  Presently  her  maid  knocked,  announc 
ing  Mr.  Quarren  on  the  wire. 

"  I'm  not  at  home,"  .said  Strelsa,  surprised,  or 
rather  trying  to  feel  a  certain  astonishment.  What 
really  surprised  her  was  that  she  felt  none. 

Her  maid  was  already  closing  the  door  behind  her 
when  Strelsa  said : 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Freda."  And,  after  thinking, 
she  smiled  to  herself  and  added :  "  You  may  set  my 
transmitter  on  the  table  beside  me,  and  hang  up  the 
receiver  in  the  library.  .  .  .  Be  sure  to  hang  it  up  at 
once." 

Then,  sitting  up  in  bed,  she  unhooked  the  receiver 
and  set  it  to  her  ear. 

"  Mr.  Quarren,"  she  began  coldly,  and  without  pre 
liminary  amenities,  "  have  you  any  possible  excuse  for 
awaking  me  at  such  an  unearthly  hour  as  mid-day?  " 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  exclaimed  contritely,  "  did  I  do 
that?" 

She  had  no  more  passion  for  the  exact  truth  than 
the  average  woman,  and  she  quibbled: 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  say  so  if  it  were  not  true  ?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  No,  of  course  not 

63 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Well,  then  !  "  An  indignant  pause.  "  But,"  she 
added  honestly,  "  I  was  not  exactly  what  you  might  call 
asleep,  although  it  practically  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  I  was  reposing.  .  .  .  Are  you  feeling  quite  fit 
this  morning?  "  she  added  demurely. 

"  I'd  be  all  right  if  I  could  see  you " 

"  You  can't !     What  an  idea !  " 

"  Why  not  ?    What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  There's  no  particular  reason  why  I  should  detail 
my  daily  duties,  obligations,  and  engagements  to  you; 
is  there? — But  I'm  an  unusually  kind-hearted  person, 
and  not  easily  offended  by  people's  inquisitiveness.  So 
I'll  overlook  your  bad  manners.  First,  then,  I  am 
lunching  at  the  Province  Club,  then  I  am  going  to  a 
matinee  at  the  Casino,  afterward  dropping  in  for  tea 
at  the  Sprowls,  dining  at  the  Calderas,  going  to  the 
Opera  with  the  Vernons,  and  afterward,  with  them,  te 
a  dance  at  the  Van  Dynes.  .  .  .  So,  will  you  kindly 
inform  me  where  you  enter  the  scene  ?  " 

She  could  hear  him  laugh  over  the  telephone. 

"  What  are  you  doing  just  now?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  seated  upon  my  innocent  nocturnal  couch, 
draped  in  exceedingly  intimate  attire,  conversing  over 
the  telephone  with  the  original  Paul  Pry." 

"  Could  anything  induce  you  to  array  yourself  more 
conventionally,  receive  me,  and  let  me  take  you  to  your 
luncheon  at  the  Province  Club  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  wish  to  see  you." 

"  Is  that  perfectly  true?  " 

"  Perfectly.  I've  just  thrown  your  gardenia  into 
the  fireplace.  Doesn't  that  prove  it?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     Because  it's  too  early,  yet,  for  either  of 

us  to  treasure  such  things " 

64 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  What  horrid  impertinence !  " 

"  Isn't  it !  But  your  heavenly  gift  of  humour  will 
transform  my  impudence  into  a  harmless  and  diverting 
sincerity.  Please  let  me  see  you,  Mrs.  Leeds — just  for 
a  few  moments." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  are  going  South  and  there  are  three 
restless  weeks  ahead  of  me " 

This  time  he  could  hear  her  clear,  far  laughter: 

"  What  has  my  going  to  Florida  to  do  with  your 
restlessness  ?  " 

"  Your  very  question  irrevocably  links  cause  and 
effect " 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Mr.  Quarren !  " 

"  Absurdity  is  the  badge  of  all  our  Guild " 

"  What  Guild  do  you  belong  to?  " 

"  The  associated  order  of  ardent  suitors " 


"  Mr.  Quarren !  You  are  becoming  ridiculous ;  do 
you  know  it?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  realise  it,  but  they  say  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  considers  suitors  ridiculous " 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  listen  to  such  nonsense  at 
such  an  hour  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  It's  half  past  twelve ;  and  my  weak  solution  of 
nonsense  is  suitable  to  the  time  of  day " 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  the  solution  becomes 
stronger  as  the  day  advances  ?  " 

"  Exactly ;  the  solution  becomes  so  concentrated 
and  powerful  that  traces  of  common-sense  begin  to 
appear " 

"  I  didn't  notice  any  last  night." 

"  Van  Dyne  interfered." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Van  Dyne.  If  you'd  been  civil  to  him 
65 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

he  might  have  asked  you  to  the  dance  to-night — if  I 
had  suggested  it.     But  you  were  horridly  rude." 

"I?     Rude?" 

"  You're  not  going  to  be  rude  enough  to  say  it  was 
I  who  behaved  badly  to  him,  are  you?  Oh,  the  shock 
ing  vanity  of  man !  No  doubt  you  are  thinking  that 
it  was  I  who,  serpent-like,  whispered  temptation  into 
your  innocent  ear,  and  drew  you  away  into  a  corner, 
and  shoved  palms  in  front  of  us,  and  brought  silver 
and  fine  linen,  and  rare  fruits  and  sparkling  wines ;  and 
paid  shameless  court  with  an  intelligent  weather-eye 
always  on  the  watch  for  a  flouted  and  justly  indignant 
cavalier !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  did  all  those  things.  And 
now  you're  trying  to  evade  the  results." 

"What  are  the  results?" 

"  A  partly  demented  young  man  clamouring  to  see 
you  at  high-noon  while  the  cold  cruel  cause  of  his 
lunacy  looks  on  and  laughs." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  young  man  must  continue  to 
clamour,"  she  said,  immensely  amused  at  the  picture  he 
drew.  "  How  far  away  is  he  at  this  moment?  " 

"  In  the  Legation,  a  blithering  wreck." 

"  Why  not  in  his  office  frantically  immersed  in  vast 
business  enterprises  and  cataclysmic  speculations?" 

"  I'm  rather  afraid  that  if  business  immerses  him 
too  completely  he  will  be  found  drowned  some  day." 

"  You  promised — said  that  you  were  going  to  be 
gin  a  vigorous  campaign,"  she  reminded  him  reproach 
fully.  "  I  asked  it  of  you ;  and  you  agreed." 

"  I  am  beginning  life  anew — or  trying  to — by  seek 
ing  the  perennial  source  of  daily  spiritual  and  mun 
dane  inspiration ' 

66 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Why  won't  you  be  serious  ?  " 

"  I  am.  Were  you  not  the  source  of  my  new  in 
spiration?  Last  night  did  something  or  other  to  me — • 
I  am  not  yet  perfectly  sure  what  it  was.  I  want  to  see 
you  to  be  sure — if  only  for  a — moment — merely  to 
satisfy  myself  that  you  are  real — 

"  Will  one  moment  be  enough  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  One  second — or  half  a  one?  " 

"  Plenty." 

"  Very  well — if  you  promise  not  to  expect  or  ask 
for  more  than  that " 

"  That  is  terribly  nice  of  you !  " 

"  It  is,  overwhelmingly.  But  really  I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  nice  or  merely  weak-minded.  Because  I've 
lingered  here  gossiping  so  long  with  you  that  I've 
simply  got  to  fly  like  a  mad  creature  about  my  dress 
ing.  Good-bye — 

"  Shall  I  come  up  immediately  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  I  expect  to  be  dressing  for  hours 
and  hours — figuratively  speaking.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
might  start  in  ten  minutes  if  you  are  coming  in  a  taxi." 

"  You  are  an  angel " 

"  That  is  not  telephone  vernacular.  .  .  .  And  per 
haps  you  had  better  be  prompt,  because  Mrs.  Lannis  is 
coming  for  me — that  is,  if  you  have  anything  to — to 
say — that " 

She  flushed  up,  annoyed  at  her  own  stupidity,  then 
felt  grateful  to  him  as  he  answered  lightly : 

"  Of  course ;  she  might  misunderstand  our  informal 
ity.  Shall  I  see  you  in  half  an  hour?  " 

"  If  I  can  manage  it,"  she  said. 

She  managed  it,  somehow.  At  first,  really  indiffer- 
67 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ent,  and  not  very  much  amused,  the  talk  with  him  had 
gradually  aroused  in  her  the  same  interest  and  pleasur 
able  curiosity  that  she  had  experienced  in  exchanging 
badinage  with  him  the  night  before.  Now  she  really 
wanted  to  see  him,  and  she  took  enough  trouble  about 
it  to  set  her  deft  maid  flying  about  her  offices. 

First  a  fragrant  precursor  of  his  advent  arrived  in 
the  shape  of  a  great  bunch  of  winter  violets ;  and  her 
maid  fastened  them  to  her  black  fox  muff.  Then  the 
distant  door-bell  sounded;  and  in  an  extraordinarily 
short  space  of  time,  wearing  her  pretty  fur  hat,  her 
boa,  and  carrying  a  muff  that  matched  both,  with  his 
violets  pinned  to  it,  she  entered  the  dim  drawing-room, 
halting  just  beyond  the  threshold. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed,"  she  said,  severely,  "  to 
come  battering  at  my  door  at  this  hour  of  the  day  ?  " 

"  Abjectly." 

They  exchanged  a  brief  handshake ;  she  seated  her 
self  on  the  arm  of  a  sofa ;  he  stood  before  the  unlighted 
fireplace,  looking  at  her  with  a  half  smiling  half  curi 
ous  air  which  made  her  laugh  outright. 

"  Bien !  C'est  moi,  monsieur,"  she  said.  "  Me 
voici !  C'est  moi-meme !  " 

"  I  believe  you  are  real  after  all,"  he  admitted. 

"Do  I  seem  different?" 

"  Yes— and  no." 

"How  am  I  different?" 

"  Well,  somehow,  last  night,  I  got  the  notion  that 
you  were  younger,  thinner — and  not  very  real " 

"  Are  you  presuming  to  criticise  my  appearance 
last  night?  "  she  asked  with  mock  indignation.  "  Be 
cause  if  you  are,  I  proudly  refer  you  to  the  enlightened 
metropolitan  morning  press." 

68 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  1  read  all  about  you,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  I  am  glad  you  did.  You  will  doubtless  now  be 
inclined  to  treat  me  with  the  respect  due  to  my  years 
and  experience." 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  your  gown  and  hat  and 
furs  make  a  charming  difference " 

"  How  perfectly  horrid  of  you !  I  thought  you 
admired  my  costume  last  night !  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,"  he  said — "  you  were  sufficiently  charm 
ing  last  night.  But  now,  in  your  fluffy  furs,  you  seem 
rather  taller — less  slender  perhaps— and  tremendously 
fetching " 

"  Say  that  my  clothes  improve  me,  and  that  in  real 
ity  I'm  a  horrid,  thin  little  beast ! "  she  exclaimed, 
laughing.  "  I  know  I  am,  but  I  haven't  finished  grow 
ing  yet.  Really  that's  the  truth,  Mr.  Quarren.  Would 
you  believe  that  I  have  grown  an  inch  since  last 
spring?  " 

"  I  believe  it,"  he  said,  "  but  would  you  mind  stop 
ping  now?  You  are  exactly  right." 

"  You  know  I'm  thin  and  flat  as  a  board !  " 

"  You're  perfect !  " 

"  It's  too  late  to  say  that  to  me " 

"  It  is  too  early  to  say  more." 

"  Let's  don't  talk  about  myself,  please." 

"  It  has  become  the  only  subject  in  the  world  that 
interests  me " 

"  Please,  Mr.  Quarren !  Are  you  actually  attempt 
ing  to  be  silly  at  this  hour  of  the  day?  The  wise  inan 
ities  of  midnight  sound  perilously  flat  in  the  sunshine — 
flatter  than  the  flattest  champagne,  which  no  bread 
crumbs  can  galvanise  into  a  single  bubble.  Tell  me, 
why  did  you  wish  to  see  me  this  morning.  I  mean  the 

69 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

real  reason?  Was  it  merely  to  find  out  whether  I  was 
weak-minded  enough  to  receive  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling: 

"  I  wanted  to  see  whether  you  were  as  real  and 
genuine  and  wholesome  and  unspoiled  and — and  friendly 
as  I  thought  you  were  last  night." 

"Am  I?" 

"  More  so." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  about  my  friendliness  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  believe  in  it,"  he  said.  "  It  means  a  lot 
to  me  already." 

"  Believe  in  it  then,  you  very  badly  spoiled  young 
man,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  hand  to  him 
impulsively.  "  I  do  like  you.  .  .  .  And  now  I  think 
you  had  better  go  —  unless  you  want  to  see  Mrs. 
Lannis." 

Retaining  her  hand  for  a  second  he  said: 

"  Before  you  leave  town  will  you  let  me  ask  you  a 
question?  " 

"  I  am  leaving  to-morrow.  You'll  have  to  ask  it 
now." 

Their  hands  fell  apart;  he  seemed  doubtful,  and 
she  awaited  his  question,  smilingly.  And  as  he  made  no 
sign  of  asking  she  said: 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  ask  it.  Is  it  a  very  im 
pertinent  question?" 

"  Very." 

"  How  impertinent  is  it  ?  "  she  inquired  curiously. 

"  Unpardonably  personal." 

After  a  silence  she  laughed. 

"  Last  night,"  she  said,  "  you  told  me  that  I  would 
probably  forget  you  unless  I  had  something  unpardon 
able  to  forgive  you.  Isn't  this  a  good  opportunity  to 

70 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

leave  your  unpardonable  imprint  upon  my  insulted 
memory?  " 

"  Excellent,"  he  said.  "  This  is  my  outrageous 
question:  are  you  engaged  to  be  married?  " 

For  a  full  minute  she  remained  silent  in  her  intense 
displeasure.  After  the  first  swift  glance  of  surprise  her 
gray  eyes  had  dropped,  and  she  sat  on  the  gilded  arm 
of  the  sofa,  studying  the  floor  covering — an  ancient 
Saraband  rug,  with  the  inevitable  and  monotonous 
river-loop  symbol  covering  its  old-rose  ground  in  un 
interesting  repetition.  After  a  while  she  lifted  her  head 
and  met  his  gaze,  quietly. 

"  I  am  trying  to  believe  that  you  did  not  mean  to 
be  offensive,"  she  said.  "  And  now  that  I  have  a  shadow 
of  a  reason  to  pardon  you,  I  shall  probably  do  so,  ulti 
mately." 

"  But  you  won't  answer  me?  "  he  said,  red 
dening. 

"  Of  course  not.  Are  we  on  any  such  footing  of  in 
timacy — even  of  friendship,  Mr.  Quarren  ?  " 

"  No.  But  you  are  going  away — and  my  reason 
for  speaking — "  He  checked  himself;  his  reasons 
were  impossible ;  there  was  no  extenuation  to  be  found 
in  them,  no  adequate  explanation  for  them,  or  for  his 
attitude  toward  this  young  girl  which  had  crystallised 
over  night — over  a  sleepless,  thrilling  night — dazzling 
him  with  its  wonder  and  its  truth  and  its  purity  in  the 
clean  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

She  watched  his  expression  as  it  changed,  troubled, 
uncertain  how  to  regard  him,  now. 

"  It  isn't  very  much  like  you,  to  ask  me  such  a  ques 
tion,"  she  said. 

"  Before  I  met  you,  you  thought  me  one  kind  of  a 
71 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

man ;  after  I  met  you,  you  thought  me  another.  Have 
I  turned  out  to  be  a  third  kind?  " 

"  N-no." 

"  Would  I  turn  into  the  first  kind  if  I  ask  you  again 
to  answer  my  question?  " 

She  gave  him  a  swift,  expressionless  glance: 

"  I  want  to  like  you ;  I'm  trying  to,  Mr.  Quarren. 
Won't  you  let  me?" 

"  I  want  to  have  the  right  to  like  you,  too — per 
haps  more  than  you  will  care  to  have  rne — 

"  Please  don't  speak  that  way — I  don't  know  what 
you  mean,  anyway — 

"  That  is  why  I  asked  you  the  question — to  find 
out  whether  I  had  a  right  to — 

"  Right !  "  she  repeated.  "  What  right?  What  do 
you  mean?  What  have  you  misinterpreted  in  me  that 
has  given  you  any  rights  as  far  as  I  am  concerned? 
Did  you  misunderstand  our  few  hours  of  masked  ac 
quaintance — a  few  moments  of  perfectly  innocent  im 
prudence? — my  overlooking  certain  conventions  and 
listening  to  you  at  the  telephone  this  morning — my  re 
ceiving  you  here  at  this  silly  hour?  What  has  given 
you  any  right  to  say  anything  to  me,  Mr.  Quarren — 
to  hint  of  the  possibility  of  anything  serious — for  the 
future — or  at  any  time  whatever?  " 

"  I  have  no  right,"  he  said,  wincing. 

"Indeed  you  have  not!"  she  rejoined  warmly, 
flushed  and  affronted.  "  I  am  glad  that  is  perfectly 
clear  to  you." 

"  No  right  at  all,"  he  repeated — "  except  the  per 
sonal  privilege  of  recognising  what  is  cleanest  and 
sweetest  and  most  admirable  and  most  unspoiled  in  life ; 
the  right  to  care  for  it  without  knowing  exactly  why — 

72 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

the  desire  to  be  part  of  it — as  have  all  men  who  are 
awakened  out  of  trivial  dreams  when  such  a  woman  as 
you  crosses  their  limited  and  foolish  horizon." 

She  sat  staring  at  him,  struggling  to  comprehend 
what  he  was  saying,  perfectly  unable  to  believe,  nor 
even  wishing  to,  yet  painfully  attentive  to  his  every 
word. 

"  Mr.  Quarren,"  she  said,  "  I  was  hurt.  I  imagined 
presumption  where  there  was  none.  But  I  am  afraid 
you  are  romantic  and  impulsive  to  an  amazing  degree. 
Yet,  both  romance  and  impulse  have  a  place  and  a 
reason,  not  undignified,  in  human  intercourse." — She 
felt  rather  superior  in  turning  this  phrase,  and  looked 
on  him  a  little  more  kindly— 

"  If  the  compliment  which  you  have  left  me  to  infer 
is  purely  a  romantic  one,  it  is  nevertheless  unwarranted 
— and,  forgive  me,  unacceptable.  The  trouble  is — 

She  paused  to  recover  her  wits  and  her  breath ;  but 
he  took  the  latter  away  again  as  he  said: 

"  I  am  in  love  with  you ;  that  is  the  trouble,  Mrs. 
Leeds.  And  I  really  have  no  business  to  say  so  until 
I  amount  to  something." 

"  You  have  no  business  to  say  so  anyway  after  one 
single  evening's  acquaintance !  "  she  retorted  hotly. 

"  Oh,  that !  If  love  were  a  matter  of  time  and  con 
vention — like  five  o'clock  tea ! — but  it  isn't,  you  know. 
It  isn't  the  brevity  of  our  acquaintance  that  worries 
me;  it's  what  /  am — and  what  you  are — and — and  the 
long,  long  road  I  have  to  travel  before  I  am  worth  your 
lightest  consideration — I  never  was  in  love  before.  For 
give  my  crudeness.  I'm  only  conscious  of  the — hope 
lessness  of  it  all." 

Breathless,  confused,  incredulous,  she  sat  there 
73 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


staring  at  him — listening  to  and  watching  this  tall, 
quiet,  cool  young  fellow  who  was  telling  her  such  in 
comprehensible  things  in  a  manner  that  began  to  fas 
cinate  her.  With  an  effort  she  collected  herself,  shook 
off  the  almost  eerie  interest  that  was  already  beginning 
to  obsess  her,  and  stood  up,  flushed  but  composed. 

"  Shall  we  not  say  any  more  about  it?  "  she  said 
quietly.  "  Because  there  is  nothing  more  to  say,  Mr. 
Quarren — except — thank  you  for — for  feeling  so 
amiably  toward  me — for  believing  me  more  than  I  really 
am.  .  .  .  And  I  would  like  to  have  your  friendship  still, 
if  I  may " 

"  You  have  it." 

"Even  yet?" 

"  Why  not?  .  .  .  It's  selfish  of  me  to  say  it— but  I 
wish  you — could  have  saved  me,"  he  said  almost  care 
lessly. 

"  From  what,  Mr.  Quarren  ?  "  I  really  do  not  un 
derstand  you." 

"  From  being  what  I  am — the  sort  of  man  you  first 
divined  me  to  be." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  *  saving'  you?"  she  asked, 
coldly. 

"  I  don't  know ! — giving  me  a  glimmer  of  hope  I 
suppose — something  to  strive  for." 

"  One  saves  one's  self,"  she  said. 

He  turned  an  altered  face  toward  her:  and  she 
looked  at  him  intently. 

"  I  guess  you  are  right,"  he  said  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  If  there  is  anything  worth  saving,  one  saves  one's 
self." 

"  I  think  that  is  true,"  she  said.   ..."  And-^if  my 

friendship — if  you  really  care  for  it " 

74 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

He  met  her  gaze: 

"  I  honestly  don't  know.  I've  been  carried  off  my 
feet  by  you,  completely.  A  man,  under  such  conditions, 
doesn't  know  anything — not  even  enough  to  hold  his 
tongue — as  you  may  have  noticed.  I  am  in  love  with 
you.  As  I  am  to-day,  my  love  for  you  would  do  you  no 
good — I  don't  know  whether  yours  would  do  me  any 
good — or  your  friendship,  either.  It  ought  to  if  I 
amounted  to  anything ;  but  I  don't — and  I  don't  know." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  so  bitterly — 
please " 

"  All  right.  It  wasn't  bitterness ;  it  was  just  whine. 
.  ..  .  I'll  go,  now.  You  will  comprehend,  after  you 
think  it  over,  that  there  is  at  least  nothing  of  imperti 
nence  in  my  loving  you — only  a  blind  unreason — a 
deadly  fear  lest  the  other  man  in  me,  suddenly  revealed, 
vanish  before  I  could  understand  him.  Because  when 
I  saw  you,  life's  meaning  broke  out  suddenly — like  a 
star — and  that's  another  stale  simile.  But  one  has  to 
climb  very  far  before  one  can  touch  even  the  nearest  of 
the  stars.  ...  So  forgive  my  one  lucid  interval.  .  .  . 
I  shall  probably  never  have  another.  .  .  .  May  I  take 
you  to  your  carriage?  " 

"  Mrs.  Lannis  is  calling  for  me." 

"  Then — I  will  take  my  leave — and  the  tatters  of 
my  reputation — any  song  can  buy  it,  now " 

"  Mr.  Quarren  !  " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go — like  this.  I  want  you  to 
go  away  knowing  in  your  heart  that  you  have  been  very 
— nice — agreeable — to  a  young  girl  who  hasn't  perhaps 
had  as  much  experience  as  you  think " 

"  Thank  God,"  he  said,  smiling. 
75 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

"  I  want  you  to  like  me,  always,"  she  said.  "  Will 
you?" 

"  I  promise,"  he  replied  so  blithely  that  for  a  mo 
ment  his  light  irony  deceived  her.  Then  something  in 
his  eyes  left  her  silent,  concerned,  unresponsive — only 
her  heart  seemed  to  repeat  persistently  in  childish  re 
iteration,  the  endless  question,  Why?  Why?  Why? 
And  she  heard  it  but  found  no  answer  where  love  was 
not,  and  had  never  been. 

"  I — am  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I — I  try 
to  understand  you — but  I  don't  seem  to.  ...  I  am  so 
•very  sorry  that  you — care  for  me." 

He  took  her  gloved  hand,  and  she  let  him. 

"  I  guess  I'm  nothing  but  a  harlequin  after  all,"  he 
said,  "  and  they're  legitimate  objects  for  pity.  Good 
bye,  Mrs.  Leeds.  You've  been  very  patient  and  sweet 
with  a  blithering  lunatic.  .  .  .  I've  committed  only 
another  harlequinade  of  a  brand-new  sort.  But  the 
fall  from  that  balcony  would  have  been  less  de 
structive." 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  her  gray  eyes. 

"  One  thing,"  she  said,  with  a  tremulous  smile,  "  you 
may  be  certain  that  I  am  not  going  to  forget  you  very 
easily." 

"  Another  thing,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  never  forget 
you  as  long  as  I  live ;  and — you  have  my  violets,  I  see. 
Are  they  to  follow  the  gardenia?  " 

"  Only  when  their  time  comes,"  she  said,  trying  to 
laugh. 

So  he  wished  her  a  happy  trip  and  sojourn  in  the 
South,  and  went  away  into  the  city — downtown,  by  the 
way  to  drop  into  an  office  chair  in  an  empty  office  and 
listen  to  the  click  of  a  typewriter  in  the  outer  room,  and 

76 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

sit  there  hour  after  hour  with  his  chin  in  his  hand  star 
ing  at  nothing  out  of  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  a  boy. 

And  she  went  away  to  her  luncheon  at  the  Province 
Club  with  Susanne  Lannis  who  wished  her  to  meet  some 
of  the  governors — very  grand  ladies — upon  whose  good 
will  depended  Strelsa's  election  to  the  most  aristocratic, 
comfortable,  wisely  managed,  and  thriftiest  of  all 
metropolitan  clubs. 

After  luncheon  she,  with  Mrs.  Lannis  and  Chrysos 
Lacy — a  pretty  red-haired  edition  of  her  brother — 
went  to  see  "  Sumurun." 

And  after  they  had  tea  at  the  redoubtable  Mrs. 
Sprowl's,  where  there  were  more  footmen  than  guests, 
more  magnificence  than  comfort,  and  more  wickedness 
in  the  gossip  than  lemon  in  the  tea  or  Irish  in  the  more 
popular  high-ball. 

The  old  lady,  fat,  pink,  enormous,  looked  about  her 
out  of  her  little  glittering  green  eyes  with  a  pleased  con 
viction  that  everybody  on  earth  was  mortally  afraid  of 
her.  And  everybody,  who  happened  to  be  anybody  in 
New  York,  was  exactly  that — with  a  few  eccentric  ex 
ceptions  like  her  nephew,  Karl  Westguard,  and  half  a 
dozen  heavily  upholstered  matrons  wrhose  social  altitude 
left  them  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  except  lack  of  defer 
ence  and  death. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  had  a  fat,  wheezy,  and  misleading 
laugh;  and  it  took  time  for  Strelsa  to  understand  that 
there  was  anything  really  venomous  in  the  old  lady ; 
but  the  gossip  there  that  afternoon,  and  the  wheezy 
delight  in  driving  a  last  nail  into  the  coffin  of  some  mori 
bund  reputation,  made  plain  to  her  why  her  hostess  was 
held  in  such  respectful  terror. 

The  talk  finally  swerved  from  Molly  Wycherly's 
77 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ball  to  the  Irish  Legation,  and  Mrs.  Sprowl  leaned  to 
ward  Strelsa,  and  panted  behind  her  fan: 

"  A  perfect  scandal,  child.  The  suppers  those 
young  men  give  there !  Orgies,  I  understand !  No  pretty 
actress  in  town  is  kept  sighing  long  for  invitations. 
Even  " — she  whispered  the  name  of  a  lovely  and  re 
spectable  prima-donna  with  a  perfectly  good  husband 
and  progeny — and  nodded  so  violently  that  it  set  her 
coughing. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Strelsa,  distressed,  "  surely  you  have 
been  misinformed !  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  wheezed  the  old  lady.  "  She  is 
no  better  than  the  rest  of  'em!  And  I  sent  for  my 
nephew  Karl,  and  I  brought  him  up  roundly.  '  Karl ! ' 
said  I,  '  what  the  devil  do  you  mean !  Do  you  want 
that  husband  of  hers  dragging  you  all  into  court?' 
And,  do  you  know,  my  dear,  he  appeared  perfectly  as 
tounded — said  it  wasn't  so — just  as  you  said  a  moment 
ago.  But  I  can  put  two  and  two  together,  yet ;  I'm  not 
too  old  and  witless  to  do  that !  And  I  warrant  you  I 
gave  him  a  tongue  trouncing  which  he  won't  forget. 
.  .  .  Probably  he  retailed  it  to  that  O'Hara  man,  and 
to  y®ung  Quarren,  too.  If  he  did  it  won't  hurt  'em, 
either." 

She  was  speaking  now  so  generally  that  everybody 
heard  her,  and  Cyrille  Caldera  said  : 

"Ricky  is  certainly  innocuous,  anyway." 

"  Oh,  is  he !  "  said  Mrs.  Sprowl  with  another  wheezy 
laugh.  "  I  fancy  I  know  that  boy.  Did  you  say 'harm 
less,'  Susanne?  Well,  you  ought  to  know,  of 
course " 

Cyrille  Caldera  blushed  brightly  although  her  affair 
with  Quarren  had  been  of  the  most  innocent  description. 

78 


;A  perfect  scandal,  child.     The  sup- 


pers  those  young  men  give  there!' 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  There's  probably  as  much  ground  for  indicting 
Ricky  as  there  is  for  indicting  me,"  she  protested. 
"  He's  merely  a  nice,  useful  boy " 

"  Rather  vapid,  don't  you  think?  "  observed  a  thin 
young  woman  in  sables  and  an  abundance  of  front 
teeth. 

"  Who  expects  anything  serious  from  Ricky  ?  He 
possesses  good  manners,  and  a  sweet  alacrity,"  said 
Chrysos  Lacy,  "  and  that's  a  rare  combination." 

"  He's  clever  enough  to  be  wicked,  anyway,"  said 
Mrs.  Sprowl.  "  Don't  tell  me  that  every  one  of  his 
sentimental  affairs  have  been  perfectly  harmless." 

"Has  he  had  many?"  asked  Strelsa  before  she 
meant  to. 

"Thousands,  child.  There  was  Betty  Clyde— 
whose  husband  must  have  been  an  idiot — and  Cynthia 
Challis — she  married  Prince  Sarnoff,  you  remem- 
ber- 

"  The  Sarnoffs  are  coming  in  February,"  observed 
Chrysos  Lacy. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  Prince  has  had  a  tub  since  he  left," 
said  Mrs.  Sprowl.  "  How  on  earth  Cynthia  can  endure 
that  dried  up  yellow  Tartar " 

"  Cynthia  was  in  love  with  Ricky  I  think,"  said 
Susanne  Lannis. 

"  Most  girls  are  when  they  come  out,  but  their 
mothers  won't  let  'em  marry  him.  Poor  Ricky." 

"  Poor  Ricky,"  sighed  Chrysos ;  "  he  is  so  nice,  and 
nobody  is  likely  to  marry  him." 

"Why?"  asked  Strelsa. 

"  Because  he's — why  he's  just  Ricky.  He  has  no 
money,  you  know.  Didn't  you  know  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Strelsa. 

79 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"That's  the  trouble— partly.  Then  there's  no 
social  advantage  for  any  girl  in  this  set  marrying  him. 
He'll  have  to  take  a  lame  duck  or  go  out  of  his  circle 
for  a  wife.  And  that  means  good-bye  Ricky — unless 
he  marries  a  lame  duck." 

"  Some  unattractive  person  of  uncertain  age  and  a 
million,"  explained  Mrs.  Lannis  as  Strelsa  turned  to 
her,  perplexed. 

"  Ricky,"  said  the  lady  with  abundant  teeth,  "  is  a 
lightweight." 

"  The  lightness,  I  think,  is  in  his  heels,"  said  Strelsa. 
"  He's  intelligent  otherwise  I  fancy." 

"  Yes,  but  not  intellectual." 

"  I  think  you  are  possibly  mistaken." 

The  profusely  dentate  lady  looked  sharply  at 
Strelsa ;  Susanne  Lannis  laughed. 

"  Are  you  his  champion,  Strelsa  ?  I  thought  you 
had  met  him  last  night  for  the  first  time." 

"  Mrs.  Leeds  is  probably  going  the  way  of  all 
women  when  they  first  meet  Dicky  Quarren,"  observed 
Mrs.  Sprowl  with  malicious  satisfaction.  "  But  you 
must  hurry  and  get  over  it,  child,  before  Sir  Charles 
Mallison  arrives."  At  which  sally  everybody  laughed. 

Strelsa's  colour  was  high,  but  she  merely  smiled, 
not  only  at  the  coupling  of  her  name  with  Quarren's 
but  at  the  hint  of  the  British  officer's  arrival. 

Major  Sir  Charles  Mallison  had  been  over  before, 
why,  nobody  knew,  because  he  was  one  of  the  wealthiest 
bachelors  in  England.  Now  it  was  understood  that  he 
was  coming  again;  and  a  great  many  well-meaning 
people  saw  that  agreeable  gentleman's  fate  in  the  new 
beauty,  Strelsa  Leeds;  and  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her 
so  with  the  freedom  of  fashionable  banter. 

80 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Chrysos  Lacy,  sentimentally,  "  when 
you  see  Sir  Charles  you'll  forget  Ricky." 

"  Doubtless,"  said  Strelsa,  still  laughing.  "  But  tell 
me,  Mrs.  Sprowl,  why  does  everybody  wish  to  marry 
me  to  somebody?  I'm  very  happy." 

"  It's  our  feminine  sense  of  fitness  and  proportion 
that  protests.  In  the  eternal  balance  of  things  material 
you  ought  to  be  as  wealthy  as  you  are  pretty." 

"  I  have  enough — almost 

"  Ah !  the  '  almost '  betrays  the  canker  feeding  on 
that  damask  cheek !  "  laughed  Mrs.  Lannis.  "  No,  you 
must  marry  millions,  Strelsa — you'll  need  them." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  have  enough.  I'd  like  to  be 
happy  for  a  while." 

The  naive  inference  concerning  the  incompatibility 
of  marriage  and  happiness  made  them  laugh  again,  for 
getting  perhaps  the  tragic  shadow  of  the  past  which 
had  unconsciously  evoked  it. 

After  Strelsa  and  Mrs.  Lannis  had  gone,  a  pair  of 
old  cats  dropped  in,  one  in  ermine,  the  other  in  sea- 
otter  ;  and  the  inevitable  discussion  of  Strelsa  Leeds 
began  with  a  brutality  and  frankness  paralleled  only  in 
kennel  parlance. 

To  a  criticism  of  the  girl's  slenderness  of  physique 
Mrs.  Sprowl  laughed  loud  and  long. 

"  That's  what's  setting  all  the  men  crazy.  The 
world's  as  full  of  curves  as  I  am ;  plumpness  to  the 
verge  of  redundancy  is  supposed  to  be  popular  among 
men;  a  well-filled  stocking  behind  the  footlights  sets 
the  gaby  agape.  But  your  man  of  the  world  has  other 
tastes." 

"  Jaded  tastes,"  said  somebody. 

"  Maybe  they're  jaded  and  vicious — but  they're 
81 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

his.  And  maybe  that  girl  has  a  body  and  limbs  which 
are  little  more  accented  than  a  boy's.  But  it's  the  last 
shriek  among  people  who  know." 

"  Not  such  a  late  one,  either,"  said  somebody. 
"  Who  was  the  French  sculptor  who  did  the  Merode?  " 

"  Before  that  Lippo  fixed  the  type,"  observed  some 
body  else. 

"  Personally,"  remarked  a  third,  "  I  don't  fancy 
pipe-stems.  Mrs.  Leeds  needs  padding — to  suit  my 
notions." 

"  Wait  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Sprowl,  significantly. 
"  The  beauty  of  that  girl  will  be  scandalous  when  she 
fills  out  a  little  more.  ...  If  she  only  had  the  wits  to 
match  what  she  is  going  to  be! — But  there's  a  streak 
of  something  silly  in  her — I  suspect  latent  sentiment — 
which  is  likely  to  finish  her  if  she  doesn't  look  sharp. 
Fancy  her  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  Ricky,  now ! — a 
boy  whose  wits  would  be  of  no  earthly  account  except 
in  doing  what  he  is  doing.  And  he's  apparently  per 
suaded  that  little  minx  that  he's  intellectual !  I'll  have 
to  talk  to  Ricky." 

"  You'd  better  talk  to  your  nephew,  too,"  said 
somebody,  laughing. 

"Who?  Karl!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  her  little 
green  eyes  mere  sparks  in  the  broad  expanse  of  face. 
"  Let  me  catch  him  mooning  around  that  girl !  Let  me 
catch  Ricky  philandering  in  earnest !  I've  made  up  my 
mind  about  Strelsa  Leeds,  and  " — she  glared  around 
her,  fanning  vigorously — "  I  think  nobody  is  likely  to 
interfere. 

That  evening,  at  the  opera,  Westguard  came  into 
her  box,  and  she  laid  down  the  law  of  limits  to  him  so 

82 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

decisively  that,  taken  aback,  astonished  and  chagrined, 
he  found  nothing  to  say  for  the  moment. 

When  he  did  recover  his  voice  and  temper  he  in 
formed  her  very  decidedly  that  he'd  follow  his  own 
fancy  as  far  as  any  woman  was  concerned. 

But  she  only  laughed  derisively  and  sent  him  off  to 
bring  Quarren  who  had  entered  the  Vernons'  box  and 
was  bending  over  Strelsa's  shoulders. 

When  Quarren  obeyed,  which  he  did  not  do  with 
the  alacrity  she  had  taught  him,  she  informed  him  with 
a  brevity  almost  contemptuous  that  his  conduct  with 
Strelsa  at  the  Wycherlys  had  displeased  her. 

He  said,  surprised:  "Why  does  it  concern  you? 
Mrs.  Wycherly  is  standing  sponsor  for  Mrs. 
Leeds " 

"  I  shall  relieve  Molly  Wycherly  of  any  responsibil 
ity,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  I  like  that  girl.  Can  Molly 
do  as  much  as  I  can  for  her  ?  " 

He  remained  silent,  disturbed,  looking  out  across 
the  glitter  at  Strelsa. 

Men  crowded  the  Vernons'  box,  arriving  in  shoals 
and  departing  with  very  bad  grace  when  it  became  nec 
essary  to  give  place  to  new  arrivals. 

"  Do  you  see  ?  "  said  the  old  lady,  tendering  him  her 
opera  glass. 

"What?"  he  asked  sullenly. 

"  A  new  planet.  Use  your  telescope,  Rix — and  also 
amass  a  little  common-sense.  Yonder  sits  a  future 
duchess,  or  a  countess,  if  I  care  to  start  things  for  her. 
Which  I  shan't — in  that  direction." 

"  There  are  no  poor  duchesses  or  countesses,  of 
course,"  he  remarked  with  an  unpleasant  laugh. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  looked  at  him.  ironically. 
83 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  understand  the  Earl  of  Dankmere,  perfectly," 
she  said — "  also  other  people,  including  young,  and 
sulky  boys.  So  if  you  clearly  understand  my  wishes, 
and  the  girl  doesn't  make  a  fool  of  herself  over  you  or 
any  other  callow  ineligible,  her  future  will  give  me 
something  agreeable  to  occupy  me." 

The  blood  stung  his  face  as  he  stood  up — a  tall 
graceful  figure  among  the  others  in  the  box — a  clean- 
cut,  wholesome  boy  to  all  appearances,  with  that  easy 
and  amiable  presence  which  is  not  distinction  but  which 
sometimes  is  even  more  agreeable. 

Lips  compressed,  the  flush  still  hot  on  his  face,  he 
stood  silent,  tasting  all  the  bitterness  that  his  career 
had  stored'  up  for  him — sick  with  contempt  for  a  self 
that  could  accept  and  swallow  such  things.  For  he  had 
been  well  schooled,  but  scarcely  to  that  contemptible 
point. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  pleasantly,  "  you  understand 
that  I  shall  do  as  I  please." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  laughed: 

"  I'll  see  to  that,  too,  Ricky." 

Chrysos  Lacy  leaned  forward  and  began  to  talk  to 
him,  and  his  training  reacted  mechanically,  for  he 
seemed  at  once  to  become  his  gay  and  engaging  self. 

He  did  not  return  to  the  Vernons'  box  nor  did  he 
see  Strelsa  again  before  she  went  South. 

The  next  night  a  note  was  delivered  to  him,  written 
from  the  Wycherlys'  car,  "  Wind-Flower." 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  QUARREN  : 

"Why  did  you  not  come  back  to  say  good-bye? 
You  spoke  of  doing  so.  I'm  afraid  Chrysos  Lacy  is 
responsible. 

84 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  The  dance  at  the  Van  Dynes  was  very  jolly.  I  am 
exceedingly  sorry  you  were  not  there.  Thank  you  for 
the  flowers  and  bon-bons  that  were  delivered  to  me  in 
my  state-room.  My  violets  are  not  yet  entirely  faded, 
so  they  have  not  yet  joined  your  gardenia  in  the  limbo 
of  useless  things. 

"  Mr.  Westguard  came  to  the  train.     He  is  nice. 

"  Mr.  O'Hara  and  Chrysos  and  Jack  Lacy  were 
there,  so  in  spite  of  your  conspicuous  absence  the  Lega 
tion  maintained  its  gay  reputation  and  covered  itself 
with  immortal  blarney. 

"  This  letter  was  started  as  a  note  to  thank  you  for 
your  gifts,  but  it  is  becoming  a  serial  as  Molly  and  Jim 
and  I  sit  here  watching  the  North  Carolina  landscape 
fly  past  our  windows  like  streaks  of  brown  lightened 
only  by  the  occasional  delicious  and  sunny  green  of 
some  long-leafed  pine. 

"  There's  nothing  to  see  from  horizon  to  horizon 
except  the  monotonous  repetition  of  mules  and  niggers 
and  evil-looking  cypress  swamps  and  a  few  razor-backs 
and  a  buzzard  flying  very  high  in  the  blue. 

"  Thank  you  again  for  my  flowers.  ...  I  wonder  if 
you  understand  that  my  instinct  is  to  be  friends  with  you  ? 

"  It  was  from  the  very  beginning. 

"  And  please  don't  be  absurd  enough  to  think  that  I 
am  going  to  forget  you — or  our  jolly  escapade  at  the 
Wycherly  ball.  You  behaved  very  handsomely  once. 
I  know  I  can  count  on  your  kindness  to  me. 

"  Good-bye,  and  many  many  thanks — as  Jack  Lacy 
says — '  f'r  the  manny  booggy-rides,  an'  th'  goom-candy, 
an'  the  boonches  av  malagy  grrapes  ' ! 

"  Sincerely  your   friend, 

"  STRELSA  LEEDS." 
85 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

That  same  day  Sir  Charles  Mallison  arrived  in  New 
York  and  went  directly  to  Mrs.  Sprowl's  house.  Their 
interview  was  rather  brief  but  loudly  cordial  on  the  old 
lady's  part: 

"  How's  my  sister  and  Foxy  ?  "  she  asked — meaning 
Sir  Renard  and  Lady  Spinney. 

Sir  Charles  regretted  he  had  not  seen  them. 

"And  you?" 

"  Quite  fit,  thanks."  And  he  gravely  trusted  that 
her  own  health  was  satisfactory. 

"  You  haven't  changed  your  mind?  "  she  asked  with 
a  smile  which  the  profane  might  consider  more  like  a 
grin. 

Sir  Charles  said  he  had  not,  and  a  healthy  colour 
showed  under  the  tan. 

"  All  these  years,"  commented  the  old  lady,  ironically. 

"  Four,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"  Was  it  four  years  ago  when  you  saw  her  in 
Egypt?" 

"  Four  years — last  month — the  tenth." 

"  And  never  saw  her  again  ?  " 

"  Never." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  shook  with  asthmatic  mirth: 

"  Such  story-book  constancy !  Why  didn't  you  ask 
your  friend  the  late  Sirdar  to  have  Leeds  pitched  into 
the  Nile.  It  would  have  saved  you  those  four  years' 
waiting?  You  know  you  haven't  many  years  to  waste, 
Sir  Charles." 

"  I'm  forty-five,"  he  said,  colouring  painfully. 

"  Four  years  gone  to  hell,"  said  the  old  lady  with 
that  delicate  candour  which  sometimes  characterised 
her.  ..."  And  now  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with 
the  rest  of  'em?  Dawdle  away  your  time?  " 

~ 


,'//„  / 
Is — Mrs.  Leeds — well?'  he  ven 


liired  at  length,  reddening  again.' 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Face  my  fate,"  he  admitted  touching  his  mous 
tache  and  fearfully  embarrassed. 

"  Well,  if  you're  in  a  hurry,  you'll  have  to  go  down 
South  to  face  it.  She's  at  Palm  Beach  for  the  next 
three  weeks." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  little  opaque  green  eyes 
a  trifle  softened. 

"  I  am  trying  to  get  you  the  prettiest  woman  in 
America,"  she  said.  "  I'm  ready  to  fight  off  everybody 
else — beat  'em  to  death,"  she  added,  her  eyes  snapping, 
then  suddenly  kind  again — "  because,  Sir  Charles,  I  like 
you.  And  for  no  other  reason  on  earth !  " 

Which  was  not  the  exact  truth.  It  was  for  another 
man's  sake  she  was  kind  to  him.  And  the  other  man 
had  been  dead  many  years. 

Sir  Charles  thanked  her,  awkwardly,  and  fell  silent 
again,  pulling  his  moustache. 

"  Is — Mrs.  Leeds — well?  "  he  ventured,  at  length, 
reddening  again. 

"  Perfectly.  She's  a  bit  wiry  just  now — thin — 
leggy,  y'  know.  Some  fanciers  prefer  'em  weedy.  But 
she'll  plump  up.  I  know  the  breed." 

He  shrank  from  her  loud  voice  and  the  vulgarity  of 
her  comments,  and  she  was  aware  of  it  and  didn't  care 
a  rap.  There  were  plenty  of  noble  ladies  as  vulgar  as 
she,  and  more  so — and  anyway  it  was  not  this  well-built, 
sober-faced  man  of  forty-five  whom  she  was  serving  with 
all  the  craft  and  insolence  and  brutality  and  generosity 
that  was  in  her — it  was  the  son  of  a  dead  man  who  had 
been  much  to  her.  How  much  nobody  in  these  days 
gossiped  about  any  longer,  for  it  was  a  long  time  ago, 
a  long,  long  time  ago  that  she  had  made  her  curtsey  to 

87 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

a  young  queen  and  a  prince  consort.  And  Sir  Charles's 
father  had  died  at  Majuba  Hill. 

"  There's  a  wretched  little  knock-kneed  peer  on  the 
cards,"  she  observed;  "  Dankmere.  He  seems  to  think 
she  has  money  or  something.  If  he  comes  over  here, 
as  my  sister  writes,  I'll  set  him  straighter  than  his  own 
legs.  And  I've  written  Foxy  to  tell  him  so." 

"  Dankmere  is  a  very  good  chap,"  said  Sir  Charles, 
terribly  embarrassed. 

"  But  not  good  enough.  His  level  is  the  Quartier 
d'Europe.  He'll  find  it ;  no  fear.  .  .  .  When  do  you  go 
South?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said,  so  honestly  that  she  grinned 
again. 

"  Then  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  Molly  Wycherly. 
Her  husband  is  Jim  Wycherly — one  of  your  sort — 
eternally  lumbering  after  something  to  kill.  He  has  a 
bungalow  on  some  lagoon  where  he  murders  ducks,  and 
no  doubt  he'll  go  there.  But  his  wife  will  be  stopping 
at  Palm  Beach.  I'll  send  you  a  letter  to  her  in  the 
morning." 

"  Many  thanks,"  said  Sir  Charles,  shyly. 


CHAPTER    IV 

STRELSA  remained  South  longer  than  she  had  ex 
pected  to  remain,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third  week  Quar- 
ren  wrote  her. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  LEEDS  : 

"  Will  you  accept  from  me  a  copy  of  Karl's  new 
book?  And  are  you  ever  coming  back?  You  are  missing 
an  unusually  diverting  winter ;  the  opera  is  exceptional, 
there  are  some  really  interesting  plays  in  town  and 
several  new  and  amusing  people — Prince  and  Princess 
Sarnoff  for  example;  and  the  Earl  of  Dankmere,  an 
anxious,  and  perplexed  little  man,  sadly  hard  up,  and 
simple-minded  enough  to  say  so ;  which  amuses  every 
body  immensely. 

"  He's  pathetically  original ;  plebeian  on  his  mother's 
side ;  very  good-natured ;  nothing  at  all  of  a  sportsman ; 
and  painfully  short  of  both  intellect  and  cash — a  funny, 
harmless,  distracted  little  man  who  runs  about  asking 
everybody  the  best  and  quickest  methods  of  amassing  a 
comfortable  fortune  in  America.  And  I  must  say  that 
people  have  jollied  him  rather  cruelly. 

"  The  Sarnoffs  on  the  other  hand  are  modest  and 
nice  people — the  Prince  is  a  yellow,  dried-up  Asiatic 
who  is  making  a  collection  of  parasites — a  shrewd, 
kindly,  and  clever  little  scientist.  His  wife  is  a  charm 
ing  girl,  intellectual  but  deliciously  feminine.  She  was 

89 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Cynthia  Challis  before  her  marriage,  and  always  a  most 
attractive  and  engaging  personality.  They  dined  with 
us  at  the  Legation  on  Thursday. 

"  Afterward  there  was  a  dance  at  Mrs.  Sprowl's.  I 
led  from  one  end,  Lester  Caldera  from  the  other.  One  or 
two  newspapers  criticised  the  decorations  and  favours 
as  vulgarly  expensive ;  spoke  of  a  '  monkey  figure  '- 
purely  imaginary — which  they  said  I  introduced  into 
the  cotillion,  and  that  the  favours  were  marmosets ! — 
who  probably  were  the  intellectual  peers  of  anybody 
present. 

"  The  old  lady  is  in  a  terrific  temper.  I'm  afraid 
some  poor  scribblers  are  going  to  catch  it.  I  thought 
it  very  funny. 

"  Speaking  of  scribblers  and  temper  reminds  me  that 
Karl  Westguard's  new  book  is  stirring  up  a  toy  tem 
pest.  He  has  succeeded  in  offending  a  dozen  people 
who  pretend  to  recognise  themselves  or  their  relatives 
among  the  various  characters.  I  don't  know  whether 
the  novel  is  really  any  good,  or  not.  We,  who  know  Karl 
so  intimately,  find  it  hard  to  realise  that  perhaps  he 
may  be  a  writer  of  some  importance. 

"  There  appears  to  be  considerable  excitement  about 
this  new  book.  People  seem  inclined  to  discuss  it  at 
dinners ;  Karl's  publishers  are  delighted.  Karl,  on  the 
contrary,  is  not  at  all  flattered  by  the  kind  of  a  success 
that  menaces  him.  He  is  mad  all  through,  but  not  as 
mad  as  his  redoubtable  aunt,  who  tells  everybody  that 
he's  a  scribbling  lunatic  who  doesn't  know  what  he's 
writing,  and  that  she  washes  her  fat  and  gem-laden 
hands  of  him  henceforth. 

"  Poor  Karl !  He's  already  thirty-seven  ;  he's  written 
fifteen  books,  no  one  of  which,  he  tells  me,  ever  before 

90 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

stirred  up  anybody's  interest.  But  this  newest  novel, 
'  The  Real  Thing,'  has  already  gone  into  three  editions 
in  two  weeks — whatever  that  actually  means — and  still 
the  re-orders  are  pouring  in,  and  his  publishers  are 
madly  booming  it,  and  several  indignant  people  are 
threatening  Karl  with  the  law  of  libel,  and  Karl  is  partly 
furious,  partly  amused,  and  entirely  astonished  at  the 
whole  affair. 

"  Because  you  see,  the  people  who  think  they  recog 
nise  portraits  of  themselves  or  their  friends  in  several  of 
the  unattractive  characters  in  the  story — are  as  usual,  in 
error.  Karl's  people  are  always  purely  and  syntheti 
cally  composite.  Besides  everybody  who  knows  Karl 
Westguard  ought  to  know  that  he's  too  decent  a  fellow, 
and  too  good  a  workman  to  use  models  stupidly.  Any 
body  can  copy;  anybody  can  reproduce  the  obvious. 
Even  photographers  are  artists  in  these  days.  Good 
work  is  a  synthesis  founded  on  truth,  and  carried  logi 
cally  to  a  conclusion. 

"  But  it's  useless  to  try  to  convince  the  Philistines. 
Once  possessed  with  the  idea  that  they  or  their  friends 
are  '  meant,'  as  they  say,  Archimedes's  lever  could  not 
pry  them  loose  from  their  agreeably  painful  obsession. 

"  Then  there  are  other  sorts  of  humans  who  are 
already  bothering  Karl.  This  species  recognise  in 
every  '  hero  '  or  '  heroine  '  a  minute  mental  and  physi 
cal  analysis  of  themselves  and  their  own  particular, 
specific,  and  petty  emotions.  Proud,  happy,  flattered, 
they  permit  nobody  to  mistake  the  supposed  tribute 
which  they  are  entirely  self-persuaded  that  the  novelist 
has  offered  to  them. 

"And  these  phases  of  'The  Real  Thing'  are  fretting 
and  mortifying  Karl  to  the  verge  of  distraction.  He 

91 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

awakes  to  find  himself  not  famous  but  notorious — not 
criticised  for  his  workmanship,  good  or  bad,  but 
gabbled  about  because  some  ludicrous  old  Uncle  Foozle 
pretends  to  discover  a  similarity  between  Karl's  episodes 
and  characters  and  certain  doings  of  which  Uncle  F.  is 
personally  cognisant. 

"  The  great  resource  of  stupidity  is  and  has  always 
been  the  anagram ;  and  as  stupidity  is  almost  invariably 
suspicious,  the  hunt  for  hidden  meanings  preoccupies 
the  majority  of  mankind. 

"  Because  I  have  ventured  to  send  you  Karl's  new 
book  is  no  reason  why  I  also  should  have  presumed  to 
write  you  a  treatise  in  several  volumes. 

"  But  I  miss  you,  oddly  enough — miss  everything  I 
never  had  of  you — your  opinions  on  what  interests  us 
both ;  the  delightful  discussions  of  things  important, 
which  have  never  taken  place  between  us.  It's  odd, 
isn't  it,  Mrs.  Leeds,  that  I  miss,  long  for,  and  even  re 
member  so  much  that  has  never  been? 

"  Molly  Wycherly  wrote  to  Mrs.  Lannis  that  you 
were  having  a  gay  time  in  Florida;  that  Sir  Charles 
Mallison  had  joined  your  party;  that  you'd  had  lunch 
eons  and  dinners  given  you  at  the  Club,  at  the  Inlet, 
at  the  Wiers's  place,  '  Coquina  Castle  ' ;  and  that  Jim 
and  Sir  Charles  had  bravely  slain  many  ducks.  Which 
is  certainly  glory  enough  to  go  round.  In  a  friendly 
little  note  to  me  you  were  good  enough  to  ask  what  I  am 
doing,  and  to  emphasise  your  request  for  an  answer  by 
underlining  your  request. 

"  Proud  and  flattered  by  your  generous  interest  I 
hasten  to  inform  you  that  I  am  leading  the  same  use 
ful,  serious,  profitable,  purposeful,  ambitious,  and  en- 

92 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

nobling  life  which  I  was  leading  when  I  first  met  you. 
Such  a  laudable  existence  makes  for  one's  self-respect ; 
and,  happy  in  that  consciousness,  undisturbed  by  jour 
nalistic  accusations  concerning  marmosets  and  vulgar 
ity,  I  concentrate  my  entire  intellectual  efforts  upon 
keeping  my  job,  which  is  to  remain  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind,  and  at  the  same  time  be  ornamental,  resourceful, 
good-tempered,  and  amusing  to  those  who  are  not  in 
variably  all  of  these  things  at  the  same  time. 

"  Is  it  too  much  to  expect  another  note  from  you? 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  RICHARD   STANLEY  QUARREN." 

She  answered  him  on  the  fourth  week  of  her  ab 
sence. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  QUARREN  : 

"  Your  letter  interested  me,  but  there  wras  all  through 
it  an  undertone  of  cynicism  which  rang  false — almost  a 
dissonance  to  an  ear  which  has  heard  you  strike  a  truer 
chord. 

"  I  do  not  like  what  you  say  of  yourself,  or  of  your 
life.  I  have  talked  very  seriously  with  Molly,  who  adores 
you ;  and  she  evidently  thinks  you  capable  of  achieving 
anything  you  care  to  undertake.  Which  is  my  own 
opinion — based  on  twenty-four  hours  of  acquaintance. 

"  I  have  read  Mr.  Westguard's  novel.  Everybody 
here  is  reading  it.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it,  some 
day.  Mr.  Westguard's  intense  bitterness  confuses  me  a 
little,  and  seems  almost  to  paralyse  any  critical  judg 
ment  I  may  possess.  A  crusade  in  fiction  has  always 
seemed  to  me  but  a  sterile  effort.  To  do  a  thing  is  fine ; 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

to  talk  about  it  in  fiction  a  far  less  admirable  perform 
ance — like  the  small  boy,  safe  in  the  window,  who  defies 
his  enemy  with  out-thrust  tongue. 

"  When  I  was  young — a  somewhat  lonely  child,  with 
only  a  very  few  books  to  companion  me — I  pored  over 
Carlyle's  'French  Revolution,'  and  hated  Philip  Egalite. 
But  that  youthful  hatred  was  a  little  modified  because 
Egalite  did  actually  become  personally  active.  If  he 
had  only  talked,  my  hatred  would  have  become  con 
tempt  for  a  renegade  who  did  not  possess  the  courage 
of  his  convictions.  But  he  voted  death  to  his  own  caste, 
facing  the  tribunal.  He  talked,  but  he  also  acted. 

"  I  do  not  mean  this  as  a  parallel  between  Mr.  West- 
guard  and  the  sanguinary  French  iconoclast.  Mr. 
Westguard,  also,  has  the  courage  of  his  convictions ; 
he  lives,  I  understand,  the  life  which  he  considers  a 
proper  one.  It  is  the  life  which  he  preaches  in  '  The 
Real  Thing ' — a  somewhat  solemn,  self-respecting,  self- 
supporting  existence,  devoted  to  self-development ;  a  life 
of  upright  thinking,  and  the  fulfilment  of  duty,  civil 
and  religious,  incident  to  dignified  citizenship.  Such  a 
life  may  be  a  blameless  one ;  I  don't  know. 

"  Also  it  might  even  be  admirable  within  its  limits  if 
Mr.  Westguard  did  not  also  appoint  himself  critic,  dis 
ciplinarian,  and  prophet  of  that  particular  section  of 
society  into  which  accident  of  birth  has  dumped  him. 

"  Probably  there  is  no  section  of  human  society  that 
does  not  need  a  wholesome  scourging  now  and  then,  but 
somehow,  it  seems  to  me,  that  it  could  be  done  less 
bitterly  and  with  better  grace  than  Mr.  Westguard  does 
it  in  his  book.  The  lash,  swung  from  within,  and  ap 
plied  with  judgment  and  discrimination,  ought  to  do 
a  more  thorough  and  convincing  piece  of  work  than  a 

94 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


knout  allied  with  the  clubs  of  the  proletariat,  hitting 
at  every  head  in  sight. 

"  Let  the  prophets  and  sybils,  the  augurs  and  ora 
cles  of  the  Hoi  polloi  address  themselves  to  them ; 
and  let  ours  talk  to  us,  not  about  us  to  the  world 
at  large. 

"  A  renegade  from  either  side  makes  an  unholy  alli 
ance,  and,  with  his  first  shout  from  the  public  pulpit, 
tightens  the  master  knot  which  he  is  trying  to  untie  to 
the  glory  of  God  and  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  good 
will  on  earth.  And  the  result  is  Donnybrook  Fair. 

"  I  hate  to  speak  this  way  to  you  of  your  friend,  and 
about  a  man  I  like  and,  in  a  measure,  really  respect. 
But  this  is  what  I  think.  And  my  inclination  is  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  always. 

"  Concerning  the  artistic  value  of  Mr.  Westguard's 
literary  performance,  I  know  little.  The  simplicity  of 
his  language  recommends  the  pages  to  me.  The  book 
is  easy  to  read.  Perhaps  therein  lies  his  art;  I  do  not 
know. 

"  Now,  as  I  am  in  an  unaccountably  serious  mood 
amid  all  the  frivolity  of  this  semi-tropical  place,  may 
I  not  say  to  you  something  about  yourself?  How  are 
you  going  to  silence  me? 

"  Well,  then ;  you  seem  to  reason  illogically.  You 
make  little  of  yourself,  yet  you  offer  me  your  friend 
ship,  by  implication,  every  time  you  write  to  me.  You 
seek  my  society  mentally.  Do  you  really  believe  that 
my  mind  is  so  easily  satisfied  with  intellectual  rubbish, 
or  that  I  am  flattered  by  letters  from  a  nobody? 

"  What  do  you  suppose  there  is  attractive  about 
you,  Mr.  Quarren — if  you  really  do  amount  to  as  little 
as  you  pretend?  I've  seen  handsomer  men,  monsieur, 

95 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

wealthier  men,  more  intelligent  men;  men  more  experi 
enced,  men  of  far  greater  talents  and  attainments. 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  that  I  sit  here  in  the  South 
ern  sunshine  writing  to  you  when  there  are  dozens  of  men 
perfectly  ready  to  amuse  me? — and  qualified  to  do  it, 
too! 

"  For  the  sake  of  your  beaux-yeux?     Non  pas! 

"  But  there  is  a  something  which  the  world  recog 
nises  as  a  subtle  and  nameless  sympathy.  And  it 
stretches  an  invisible  filament  between  you  and  the  girl 
who  is  writing  to  you. 

"  That  tie  is  not  founded  on  sentiment ;  I  think  you 
know  that.  And,  of  things .  spiritual,  you  and  I  have 
never  yet  spoken. 

"  Therefore  I  conclude  that  the  tie  must  be  purely 
intellectual;  that  mind  calls  to  mind  and  finds  content 
ment  in  the  far  response. 

"  So,  when  you  pretend  to  me  that  you  are  of  no  in 
tellectual  account,  you  pay  me  a  scurvy  compliment. 
Quod  erat  demonstrandum. 

"With  this  gentle  reproof  I  sea!  my  long,  long  letter, 
and  go  where  the  jasmine  twineth  and  the  orchestra 
playeth ;  for  it  is  tea-time,  my  friend,  and  the  Park  of 
Peacocks  is  all  a-glitter  with  plumage.  Soft  eyes  look 
wealth  to  eyes  that  ask  again ;  and  all  is  brazen  as  a 
dinner  bell ! 

"  O  friend !  do  you  know  that  since  I  have  been  here 
I  might  have  attained  to  fortune,  had  I  cared  to  select 
any  one  of  several  generous  gentlemen  who  have  been 
good  enough  to  thrust  that  commodity  at  me? 

"  To  be  asked  to  marry  a  man  no  longer  distresses 
me.  I  am  all  over  the  romantic  idea  of  being  sorry  for 
wealthy  amateurs  who  make  me  a  plain  business  propo- 

96 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

sition,  offering  to  invest  a  fortune  in  my  good  looks.  To 
amateurs,  connoisseurs,  and  collectors,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  fixed  market  value  to  anything.  An  object 
of  art  is  worth  what  it  can  be  bought  for.  I  don't  yet 
know  how  much  I  am  worth.  I  may  yet  find  out. 

"  There  are  nice  men  here,  odious  men,  harmless 
men,  colourless  men,  worthy  men,  and  the  ever-present 
fool.  He  is  really  the  happiest,  I  suppose. 

"  Then,  all  in  a  class  by  himself,  is  an  Englishman, 
one  Sir  Charles  Mallison.  I  don't  know  what  to  tell 
you  about  him  except  that  I  feel  exceedingly  safe  and 
comfortable  when  I  am  with  him. 

"  He  says  very  little ;  I  say  even  less.  But  it  is  agree 
able  to  be  with  him. 

"  He  is  middle-aged,  and,  I  imagine,  very  wise.  Per 
haps  his  reticence  makes  me  think  so.  He  and  Mr. 
Wycherly  shoot  ducks  on  the  lagoon — and  politics  into 
each  other. 

"  I  must  go.  You  are  not  here  to  persuade  me  to 
stay  and  talk  nonsense  to  you  against  my  better  judg 
ment.  You're  quite  helpless,  you  see.  So  I'm  off. 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  again  ? 

"  STRELSA  LEEDS." 

A  week  after  Quarren  had  answered  her  letter 
O'Hara  called  his  attention  to  a  paragraph  in  a  morn 
ing  paper  which  hinted  at  an  engagement  between  Sir 
Charles  Mallison  and  Mrs.  Leeds. 

Next  day's  paper  denied  it  on  excellent  authority; 
so,  naturally,  the  world  at  large  believed  the  contrary. 

Southern  news  also  revealed  the  interesting  item 
that  the  yacht,  Yulan,  belonging  to  Mrs.  Sprowl's 
hatchet-faced  nephew,  Langly  Sprowl,  had  sailed  from 

97 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Miami  for  the  West  Indies  with  the  owner  and  Mrs. 
Leeds  and  Sir  Charles  Mallison  among  the  guests. 

The  Yulan  had  not  as  fragrant  a  reputation  as 
its  exotic  name  might  signify,  respectable  parties  being 
in  the  minority  aboard  her,  but  Langly  Sprowl  was 
Langly  Sprowl,  and  few  people  declined  any  invitation 
of  his. 

He  was  rather  a  remarkable  young  man,  thin  as  a 
blade,  with  a  voracious  appetite  and  no  morals.  Nor 
did  he  care  whether  anybody  else  had  any.  What  he 
wanted  he  went  after  with  a  cold  and  unsensitive  direct 
ness  that  no  newspapers  had  been  courageous  enough 
to  characterise.  He  wouldn't  have  cared  if  they  had. 

Among  other  things  that  he  had  wanted,  recently, 
was  another  man's  wife.  The  other  man  being  of  his 
own  caste  made  no  difference  to  him;  he  simply  forced 
him  to  let  his  wife  divorce  him;  wrhich,  it  was  under 
stood,  that  pretty  young  matron  wras  now  doing  as 
rapidly  as  the  laws  of  Nevada  allowed. 

Meanwhile  Langly  Sprowl  had  met  Strelsa  Leeds. 

The  sailing  of  the  Yulan  for  the  West  Indies  be 
came  the  topic  of  dinner  and  dance  gossip ;  and  Quarren 
heard  every  interpretation  that  curiosity  and  malice 
could  put  upon  the  episode. 

He  had  been  feeling  rather  cheerful  that  day ;  a  mis 
guided  man  from  Jersey  City  had  suddenly  developed  a 
mania  for  a  country  home.  Quarren  personally  con 
ducted  him  all  over  Tappan-Zee  Park  on  the  Hudson, 
through  mud  and  slush  in  a  skidding  touring  car,  with 
the  result  that  the  man  had  become  a  pioneer  and  had 
promised  to  purchase  a  building  site. 

So  Quarren  came  back  to  the  Legation  that  after- 
98 


;I  write,'  said  Westguard,  furious,  *  because  I  have  a  message  to 
deliv— '" 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

noon  feeling  almost  buoyant,  and  discovered  Westguard 
in  all  kinds  of  temper,  smoking  a  huge  faience  pipe 
which  he  always  did  when  angry,  and  which  had  become 
known  as  "  The  Weather-breeder." 

"  Jetzt  geht  das  Wetter  los !  "  quoted  Quarren, 
dropping  into  a  seat  by  the  fire.  "  Where  is  this  par 
ticular  area  of  low  depression  centred,  Karl?  " 

"  Over  my  damn  book.  The  papers  insist  it's  a 
livre-a-clef;  and  I  am  .certain  the  thing  is  selling  on  that 
account !  I  tell  you  it's  humiliating.  I've  done  my  best 
as  honestly  as  I  know  how,  and  not  one  critic  even  men 
tions  the  philosophy  of  the  thing;  all  they  notice  is  the 
mere  story  and  the  supposed  resemblance  between  my 
characters  and  living  people !  I'm  cursed  if  I  ever " 

"  Oh,  shut  up  ! "  said  Quarren  tranquilly.  "  If  you're 
a  novelist  you  write  to  amuse  people,  and  you  ought  to 
be  thankful  that  you've  succeeded." 

"  Confound  it !  "  roared  Westguard,  "  I  write  to  in 
struct  people !  not  to  keep  'em  from  yawning !  " 

"  Then  you've  made  a  jolly  fluke  of  it,  that's  all — 
because  you  have  accidentally  written  a  corking  good 
story — good  enough  and  interesting  enough  to  make 
people  stand  for  the  cold  chunks  of  philosophical  ad 
monition  with  which  you've  spread  your  sandwich — 
thinly,  Heaven  be  praised !  " 

"  I  write,"  said  Westguard,  furious,  "  because  I've 
a  message  to  deliv " 

"  Help  !  "  moaned  Quarren.  "  You  write  because 
it's  in  you  to  do  it ;  because  you've  nothing  more  inter 
esting  to  do ;  and  because  it  enables  you  to  make  a  de 
cent  and  honourable  living !  " 

"  Do  those  reasons  prevent  my  having  a  message  to 
deliver?  "  roared  Westguard. 

99 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  No,  they  exist  in  spite  of  it.  You'd  write  anyway, 
whether  or  not  you  believed  you  had  a  message  to  de 
liver.  You've  written  some  fifteen  novels,  and  fifteen 
times  you  have  smothered  your  story  with  your  mes 
sage.  This  time,  by  accident,  the  story  got  its  second 
breath,  and  romped  home,  with  '  Message  '  a  bad  second, 
and  that  selling  plater,  '  Philosophy,'  left  at  the 
post- " 

"  Go  on  ! — you  irreverent  tout !  "  growled  West- 
guard  ;  "  I  want  my  novels  read,  of  course.  Any  author 
does.  But  I  wish  to  Heaven  somebody  would  try  to  in 
terpret  the  important  lessons  which  I " 

"  Oh,  preciousness  and  splash !  Tell  your  story  as 
well  as  you  can,  and  if  it's  well  done  there'll  be  latent 
lessons  enough  in  it." 

"  Are  you  perhaps  instructing  me  in  my  own  profes 
sion  ?  "  asked  the  other,  smiling. 

"  Heaven  knows  I'm  not  venturing " 

"  Heaven  knows  you  are!  Also  there  is  something 
in  what  you  say — "  He  sat  smoking,  thoughtfully, 
eyes  narrowing  in  the  fire — "  if  I  only  could  manage 
that ! — to  arrest  the  public's  attention  by  the  rather 
cheap  medium  of  the  story,  and  then,  cleverly,  shoot  a 
few  moral  pills  into  'em.  .  .  .  That's  one  way,  of 
course " 

"  Like  the  drums  of  the  Salvation  Army." 

Westguard  looked  around  at  him,  suspiciously,  but 
Quarren  seemed  to  be  serious  enough. 

"  I  suppose  it  doesn't  matter  much  how  a  fellow  col 
lects  an  audience,  so  that  he  does  collect  one." 

"  Exactly,"  nodded  Quarren.  "  Get  your  people, 
then  keep  'em  interested  and  unsuspecting  while  you 
inject  'em  full  of  thinks." 

100 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Westguard  smoked  and  pondered ;  but  presently  his 
lips  became  stern  and  compressed. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  trifle  with  my  convictions  or 
make  any  truce  or  any  compromise  with  'em,"  he  an 
nounced.  "  I'm  afraid  that  this  last  story  of  mine  ran 
away  with  me." 

"  It  sure  did,  old  Ironsides.  Heaven  protected  her 
own  this  time.  And  in  '  The  Real  Thing  '  you  have 
ridden  farther  out  among  the  people  with  your  Bible 
and  your  Sword  than  you  ever  have  penetrated  by 
brandishing  both  from  the  immemorial  but  immobile 
battlements  of  righteousness.  Truth  is  a  citadel,  old 
fellow ;  but  its  garrison  should  be  raiders,  not  defenders. 
And  they  should  ride  far  afield  to  carry  its  message. 
For  few  journey  to  that  far  citadel;  you  must  go  to 
them.  And  does  it  make  any  difference  what  vehicle 
you  employ  in  the  cause  of  Truth — so  that  the  message 
arrives  somewhere  before  your  vehicle  breaks  down  of 
its  own  heaviness  ?  Novel  or  poem,  sermon  or  holy  writ 
— it's  all  one,  Karl,  so  that  they  get  there  with  their 
burden." 

Westguard  sat  silent  a  moment,  then  thumped  the 
table,  emphatically. 

"  If  I  had  your  wasted  talents,"  he  said,  "  I  could 
write  anything !  " 

"Rot!" 

"  As  you  please.  You  use  your  ability  rottenly — 
that's  true  enough." 

"  My  ability,"  mimicked  Quarren. 

"  Yes,  your  many,  many  talents,  Rix.  God  knows 
why  He  gave  them  to  you ;  I  don't — for  you  use  them 
ignobly,  when  you  do  not  utterly  neglect  them " 

"  I've  a  light  and  superficial  talent  for  entertaining 
101 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

people ;  I've  nimble  legs,  and  possess  a  low  order  of  in 
telligence  known  as  '  tact.'  What  more  have  I?  " 

"  You're  the  best  amateur  actor  in  New  York,  for 
example." 

"  An  amateur/'  sneered  Quarren.  "  That  is  to  say, 
a  man  who  has  the  inclinations,  but  neither  the  courage, 
the  self-respect,  nor  the  ambition  of  the  professional. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  admit  that.  I  lack  something — courage, 
I  think.  I  prefer  what  is  easy.  And  I'm  doing  it." 

"  What's  your  reward  ?  "   said  Westguard  bluntly. 

"Reward?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  inner  temple. 
I  have  the  run  of  the  premises.  People  like  me,  trust 
me,  depend  upon  me  more  or  less.  The  intrigues  and 
politics  of  my  little  world  amuse  me ;  now  and  then  I 
act  as  ambassador,  as  envoy  of  peace,  as  herald,  as  secret 
diplomatic  agent.  .  .  .  Reward?  Oh,  yes — you  didn't 
suppose  .that  my  real-estate  operations  clothed  and  fed 
me,  did  you,  Karl?  " 

"What  does?" 

"  Diplomacy,"  explained  Quarren  gaily.  "  A  suc 
cessful  embassy  is  rewarded.  How?  Why,  now  and 
then  a  pretty  woman's  husband  makes  an  investment 
for  me  at  his  own  risk ;  now  and  then,  when  my  office  is 
successfully  accomplished,  I  have  my  fee  as  social  attor 
ney  or  arbiter  elegantiarum.  .  .  .  There  are,  perhaps, 
fewer  separations  and  divorces  on  account  of  me ;  fewer 
scandals. 

"  I  am  sometimes  called  into  consultation,  in  ex 
tremis;  I  listen,  I  advise — sometimes  I  plan  and  execute; 
even  take  the  initiative  and  interfere — as  when  a  fool 
ish  boy  at  the  Cataract  Club,  last  week,  locked  himself 
into  the  bath-room  with  an  automatic  revolver  and  a 
case  of  half-drunken  fright.  I  had  to  be  very  careful; 

102 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

I   expected   to   hear   that   drumming   fusillade    at    any 
moment. 

"  But  I  talked  to  him,  through  the  keyhole :  and 
at  last  he  opened  the  door — to  take  a  shot  at  me, 
first." 

Quarren  shrugged  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  his  father  was  only  too 
glad  to  pay  his  debts.  But  boys  don't  always  see  things 
in  their  true  proportions.  Neither  do  women." 

Westguard,  silent,  scowling,  pulled  at  his  pipe  for 
a  while,  then : 

"  Why  should  you  play  surgeon  and  nurse  in  such 
a  loathsome  hospital?  " 

"  Somebody  must.  I  seem  better  fitted  to  do  it  than 
the  next  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Westguard  with  a  wry  face,  "  I  fancy 
somebody  must  do  unpleasant  things — even  among  the 
lepers  of  Molokai.  But  I'd  prefer  real  lepers." 

"  The  social  sort  are  sometimes  sicker,"  laughed 
Quarren. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  it's  all 
off  between  my  aunt  and  me." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Karl " 

"  I'm  not !  I  don't  want  her  money.  She  told  me 
to  go  to  the  devil,  and  I  said  something  similar.  Do 
you  know  what  she  wants  me  to  do  ?  "  he  added  an 
grily.  "  Give  up  writing,  live  on  an  allowance  from  her, 
and  marry  Chrysos  Lacy !  What  do  you  think  of  that 
for  a  cold-blooded  and  impertinent  proposition !  We 
had  a  fearful  family  row,"  he  continued  with  satisfac 
tion — "  my  aunt  bellowing  so  that  her  footmen  actually 
fled,  and  I  doing  the  cool  and  haughty,  and  letting  her 
bellow  her  bally  head  off." 

103 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  You  and  she  have  exchanged  civilities  before," 
said  Quarren,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  really  serious.  I'm  damned  if  I 
give  up  writing." 

"  Or  marry  Chrysos  Lacy  ?  " 

"  Or  that,  either.  Do  you  think  I  want  a  red-headed 
wife?  And  I've  never  spoken  a  dozen  words  to  her, 
either.  And  I'll  pick  out  my  own  wife.  What  does  my 
aunt  think  I  am  ?  I  wish  I  were  in  love  with  somebody's 
parlour-maid.  B'jinks!  I'd  marry  her,  just  to  see  my 
aunt's  expression " 

"  Oh,  stop  your  fulminations,"  said  Quarren,  laugh 
ing.  "  That's  the  way  with  you  artistic  people ;  you're 
a  passionate  pack  of  pups !  " 

"  I'm  not  as  passionate  as  my  aunt ! "  retorted 
Westguard  wrathfully.  "  Do  you  consider  her  artistic? 
She's  a  meddlesome,  malicious,  domineering,  insolent, 
evil  old  woman,  and  I  told  her  so." 

Quarren  managed  to  stifle  his  laughter  for  a  moment, 
but  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous  was  keen,  and  the  scene 
his  fancy  evoked  sent  him  off  into  mirth  uncontrollable. 

Westguard  eyed  him  gloomily;  ominous  clouds 
poured  from  "  The  Weather-breeder." 

"  Perhaps  it's  funny,"  he  said,  "  but  she  and  I  can 
not  stand  each  other,  and  this  time  it's  all  off  for  keeps. 
I  told  her  if  she  sent  me  another  check  I'd  send  it  back. 
That  settles  it,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  You're  foolish,  Karl " 

"  Never  mind.  If  I  can't  keep  myself  alive  in  an  un 
trammelled  and  self-respecting  exercise  of  my  profes 
sion — "  His  voice  ended  in  a  gurgling  growl.  Then, 
as  though  the  recollections  of  his  injuries  at  the  hands 
of  his  aunt  still  stung  him,  he  reared  up  in  his  chair : 

104 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Chrysos  Lacy,"  he  roared,  "  is  a  sweet,  innocent 
girl — not  a  bale  of  fashionable  merchandise !  Besides," 
he  added  in  a  modified  tone,  "  I  was  rather  taken  by — 
by  Mrs.  Leeds." 

Quarren  slowly  raised  his  eyes. 

"  I  was,"  insisted  Westguard  sulkily ;  "  and  I  proved 
myself  an  ass  by  saying  so  to  my  aunt.  Why  in 
Heaven's  name  I  was  idiot  enough  to  go  and  tell  her, 
I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  she 
would  be  so  delighted  that  she'd  give  me  several  tons  of 
helpful  advice." 

"Did  she?" 

"  Did  she !  She  came  back  at  me  with  Chrysos  Lacy, 
I  tell  you !  And  when  I  merely  smiled  and  attempted  to 
waive  away  the  suggestion,  she  flew  into  a  passion,  called 
me  down,  cursed  me  out — you  know  her  language  isn't 
always  in  good  taste — and  then  she  ordered  me  to  keep 
away  from  Mrs.  Leeds — as  though  I  ever  hung  around 
any  woman's  skirts !  I'm  no  Squire  of  Dames.  I  tell 
you,  Rix,  I  was  mad  clear  through.  So  I  told  her  that 
I'd  marry  Mrs.  Leeds  the  first  chance  I  got 

"  Don't  talk  about  her  that  way,"  remonstrated 
Quarren  pleasantly. 

"  About  who?     My  aunt?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  your  aunt  ?  " 

"Oh.  About  Mrs.  Leeds.  Why  not?  She's  the 
most  attractive  woman  I  ever  met — 

"  Very  well.  But  don't  talk  about  marrying  her — 
as  though  you  had  merely  to  suggest  it  to  her.  You 
know,  after  all,  Mrs.  Leeds  may  have  ideas  of  her 
own." 

"  Probably  she  has,"  admitted  Wrestguard,  sulkily. 
"  I  don't  imagine  she'd  care  for  a  man  of  my  sort.  Why 

105 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

do  you  suppose  she  went  off  on  that  cruise  with  Langly 
Sprowl?  " 

Quarren  said,  gravely :  "  I  have  no  idea  what  reasons 
Mrs.  Leeds  has  for  doing  anything." 

"  You  correspond." 

"Who  said  so?" 

"  My  aunt." 

Quarren  flushed  up,  but  said  nothing. 

Westguard,  oblivious  of  his  annoyance,  and  envel 
oped  in  a  spreading  cloud  of  tobacco,  went  on : 

"  Of  course  if  you  don't  know,  /  don't.  But,  by 
the  same  token,  my  aunt  was  in  a  towering  rage  when 
she  heard  that  Langly  had  Mrs.  Leeds  aboard  the 
Ytdan." 

"  What !  "  said  the  other,  sharply. 

"  She  swore  like  a  trooper,  and  called  Langly  all 
kinds  of  impolite  names.  Said  she'd  trim  him  if  he  ever 
tried  any  of  his  tricks  around  Mrs.  Leeds — 

"  What  tricks  ?     What  does  she  mean  by  tricks  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she  meant  any  of  his  blackguardly 
philandering.  There  isn't  a  woman  living  on  whom  he 
is  afraid  to  try  his  hatchet-faced  blandishments." 

Quarren  dropped  back  into  the  depths  of  his  arm 
chair.  Presently  his  rigid  muscles  relaxed.  He  said 
coolly : 

"  I  don't  think  Langly  Sprowl  is  likely  to  misunder 
stand  Mrs.  Leeds." 

"  That  depends,"  said  Westguard.  "  He's  a  rotten 
specimen,  even  if  he  is  my  cousin.  And  he  knows  I  think 
so." 

A  few  minutes  later  O'Hara  sauntered  in.  He  had 
been  riding  in  the  Park  and  his  boots  and  spurs  were 
shockingly  muddy. 

106 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"Who  is  this  Sir  Charles  Mallison,  anyway?"  he 
asked,  using  the  decanter  and  then  squirting  his  glass 
full  of  carbonic.  "  Is  it  true  that  he's  goin'  to  marry 
that  charmin'  Mrs.  Leeds?  I'll  break  his  bally  Sassen 
ach  head  for  him  !  I'll— 

"  The  rumour  was  contradicted  in  this  morning's 
paper,"  said  Quarren  coldly. 

O'Hara  drank  pensively :  "  I  see  that  Langly 
Sprowl  is  messin'  about,  too.  Mrs.  Ledwith  had  better 
hurry  up  out  there  in  Reno — or  wherever  she's  gettin' 
her  divorce.  I  saw  Chet  Ledwith  ridin'  in  the  Park. 
Dankmere  was  with  him.  Funny  he  doesn't  seem  to  lose 
any  caste  by  sellin'  his  wife  to  Sprowl." 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  filthy  mess,"  growled  West- 
guard;  "let  it  alone." 

"  Why  don't  you  make  a  novel  about  it?  "  inquired 
O'Hara. 

"  Because,  you  dub !  I  don't  use  real  episodes  or  liv 
ing  people !  "  roared  Westguard ;  "  newspapers  and  a 
few  chumps  to  the  contrary !  " 

"  So  ! — so-o !  "  said  O'Hara,  soothingly — "  whoa 
—  steady,  boy !  "  And  he  pretended  to  rub  down 
Westguard,  hissing  the  while  as  do  grooms  when 
currying. 

"  Anybody  who  tells  the  truth  about  social  condi 
tions  in  any  section  of  human  society  is  always  regarded 
as  a  liar,"  said  Westguard.  "  Not  that  I  have  any 
desire  to  do  it,  but  if  I  should  ever  write  a  novel  dealing 
with  social  conditions  in  any  fashionable  set,  I'd  be  dis 
believed." 

"  You  would  be  if  you  devoted  your  attention  to 
fashionable  scandals  only,"  said  Quarren. 

"  Why?     Aren't  there  plenty  of  scandalous " 

107 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Plenty.  But  no  more  than  in  any  other  set  or 
coterie ;  not  as  many  as  there  are  among  more  ignorant 
people.  Virtue  far  outbalances  vice  among  us :  a  novel, 
properly  proportioned,  ought  to  show  that.  If  it 
doesn't,  it's  misleading." 

"  Supposing,"  said  Westguard,  "  that  I  were  in 
decent  enough  to  show  up  my  aunt  in  fiction.  Nobody 
would  believe  her  possible." 

"I  sometimes  doubt  her  even  now,"  observed  O'Hara, 
grinning. 

Quarren  said :  "  Count  up  the  unpleasant  characters 
in  your  own  social  vicinity,  Karl — just  to  prove  to 
yourself  that  there  are  really  very  few." 

"  There  is  Langly — and  my  aunt — and  the  Lester 
Calderas — and  the  Ledwiths " 

"  Go  on  !  " 

Westguard  laughed :  "  I  guess  that  ends  the  list," 
he  said. 

"  It  does.     Also  I  dispute  the  list,"  said  Quarren. 

"  Cyrille  Caldera  is  a  pippin,"  remarked  O'Hara, 
sentimentally. 

"  What  about  Mary  Ledwith  ?  Is  anybody  here  in 
clined  to  sit  in  judgment?  " 

"  I,"  said  Westguard  grimly. 

"Why?" 

"  Divorce  is  a  dirty  business." 

"  Oh.  You'd  rather  she  put  up  with  Chester? — the 
sort  of  man  who  was  weak  enough  to  let  her  go?  " 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Get  out,  you  old  Roundhead !  "  said  Quarren, 
laughing.  He  rose,  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  West- 
guard's  shoulder  in  passing,  and  went  upstairs  to  his 
room,  where  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Strelsa ;  and  then 

108 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

destroyed  it.     Then  he  lay  down,  covering  his  boyish 
head  with  his  arms. 

When  Lacy  came  in  he  saw  him  lying  on  the  bed, 
and  thought  he  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER    V 

TOWARD  the  end  of  March  Strelsa,  with  the  Wych- 
erljs,  returned  to  New  York,  dead  tired.  She  had  been 
flattered,  run  after,  courted  from  Palm  Beach  to 
Havana;  the  perpetual  social  activity,  the  unbroken 
fever  of  change  and  excitement  had  already  made  firmer 
the  soft  lineaments  of  the  girl's  features,  had  slightly 
altered  the  expression  of  the  mouth. 

By  daylight  the  fatigues  of  pleasure  were  faintly 
visible — that  unmistakable  imprint  which  may  perhaps 
leave  the  eyes  clear  and  calm,  but  which  edges  the  hard 
ened  contour  of  the  cheek  under  them  with  deeper  violet 
shadow. 

Not  that  hers  was  as  yet  the  battered  beauty  of 
exhaustion ;  she  had  merely  lived  every  minute  to  the 
full  all  winter  long,  and  had  overtaxed  her  capacity ; 
and  the  fire  had  consumed  something  of  her  freshness. 

Not  yet  inured,  not  yet  crystallised  to  that  ex 
perienced  hardness  which  withstands  the  fierce  flame  of 
living  too  fast  in  a  world  where  every  minute  is  de 
manded  and  where  sleep  becomes  a  forgotten  art,  the 
girl  was  completely  tired  out,  and  while  she  herself  did 
not  realise  it,  her  features  showed  it. 

But  nervous  exhaustion  alone  could  not  account  for 
the  subtle  change  in  her  expression.  Eyes  and  lips  were 
still  sweet,  even  in  repose,  but  there  was  now  a  jaded 
charm  about  them — something  unspoiled  had  dis- 

110 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


appeared  from  them — something  of  that  fearlessness 
which  vanishes  after  too  close  and  too  constant  contact 
with  the  world  of  men. 

Evidently  her  mind  was  quite  as  weary  as  her  body, 
though  even  to  herself  she  had  not  admitted  fatigue ; 
and  a  tired  mind  no  longer  defends  itself.  Hers  had 
not ;  and  the  defence  had  been,  day  by  day,  impercep 
tibly  weakening.  So  that  things  to  which  once  she  had 
been  able  at  will  to  close  her  mind,  and,  mentally  deaf, 
let  pass  unheard,  she  had  heard,  and  had  even  thought 
about.  And  the  effort  to  defend  her  ears  and  mind  be 
came  less  vigorous,  less  instinctive — partly  through 
sheer  weariness. 

The  wisdom  of  woman  and  of  man,  and  of  what  is 
called  the  world,  the  girl  was  now  learning — uncon 
sciously  in  the  beginning  and  then  with  a  kind  of 
shamed  indifference — but  the  creation  of  an  artificial 
interest  in  anything  is  a  subtle  matter ;  and  the  ceaseless 
repetition  of  things  unworthy  at  last  awake  that  ignoble 
curiosity  always  latent  in  man.  Because  intelligence 
was  born  with  it ;  and  unwearied  intelligence  alone  com 
pletely  suppresses  it. 

At  first  she  had  kept  her  head  fairly  level  in  the 
whirlwind  of  adulation.  To  glimpses  of  laxity  she 
closed  her  eyes.  Sir  Charles  was  always  refreshing  to 
her;  but  she  could  see  little  more  of  him  than  of  other 
men — less  than  she  saw  of  Langly  Sprowl,  however  that 
happened — and  it  probably  happened  through  the  clev 
erness  of  Langly  Sprowl. 

Again  and  again  she  found  herself  with  him  sep 
arated  from  the  others — sometimes  alone  with  him  on 
deck — and  never  quite  understood  how  it  came  about 
so  constantly. 

Ill 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

As  for  Sprowl  he  made  love  to  her  from  the  first; 
and  he  was  a  trim,  carefully  groomed  and  volubly  ani 
mated  young  man,  full  of  information,  and  with  a  rest 
less,  ceaseless  range  of  intelligence  which  at  first  dazzled 
with  its  false  brilliancy. 

But  it  was  only  a  kind  of  flash-light  intelligence.  It 
seemed  to  miss,  occasionally ;  some  cog,  some  screw 
somewhere  was  either  absent  or  badly  adjusted  or  over 
strained. 

At  first  Strelsa  found  the  young  fellow  fascinating. 
He  had  been  everywhere  and  had  seen  everything;  his 
mind  was  kaleidoscopic;  his  thought  shifted,  flashed, 
jerked,  leaped  like  erratic  lightning  from  one  subject  to 
another — from  Japanese  aeroplanes  to  a  scheme  for  fill 
ing  in  the  East  River;  from  a  plan  to  reconcile  church 
and  state  in  France  to  an  idea  for  indefinitely  prolong 
ing  human  life.  He  had  written  several  books  about  all 
kinds  of  things.  Nobody  read  them. 

The  first  time  he  spoke  to  her  of  love  was  on  a  mag 
nificent  star-set  night  off  Martinique;  and  she  coolly 
reminded  him  of  the  gossip  connecting  him  with  a  pretty 
woman  in  Reno.  She  could  not  have  done  it  a  month 
ago. 

He  denied  it  so  pleasantly,  so  frankly,  that,  aston 
ished,  she  could  scarcely  choose  but  believe  him. 

After  that  he  made  ardent,  headlong  love  to  her  at 
every  opportunity,  with  a  flighty  recklessness  which  be 
gan  by  amusing  her.  At  first,  also,  she  found  whole 
some  laughter  a  good  defence ;  but  there  was  an  under 
current  of  intelligent,  relentless  vigour  in  his  attack 
which  presently  sobered  her.  And  she  vaguely  realised 
that  he  was  a  man  who  knew  what  he  wanted.  A  talk 
with  Molly  Wycherly  sobered  her  still  more;  and  she 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

avoided  him  as  politely  as  she  could.  But,  being  her 
host,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  clear  of  him.  Besides 
there  was  about  him  a  certain  unwholesome  fascination, 
even  for  her.  No  matter  how  bad  a  man's  record  may 
be,  few  women  doubt  their  ability  to  make  it  a  better 
one. 

"  You  little  goose,"  said  Molly  Wycherly,  "  every 
body  knows  the  kind  of  man  he  is.  Could  anything  be 
more  brazen  than  his  attentions  to  you  while  Mary  Led- 
with  is  in  Reno  ?  " 

"  He  says  that  her  being  there  has  nothing  to  do 
with  him." 

"  Then  he  lies,"  said  Molly,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  He  doesn't  speak  as  though  he  were  trying  to  de 
ceive  anybody,  Molly.  He  is  perfectly  frank  to  me.  I 
can't  believe  that  scandal.  Besides  he  is  quite  open  and 
manly  about  his  unsavoury  reputation ;  makes  no  ex 
cuses  ;  simply  says  that  there's  good  in  every  man,  and 
that  there  is  always  one  woman  in  the  world  who  can 
bring  it  out — 

"  Oh,  mushy  !  What  an  out-of-date  whine  !  He's 
bad  all  through  I  tell  you — 

"  No  man  is !  "  insisted  Strelsa. 

"What?" 

"  No  man  is.  The  great  masters  of  fiction  always 
ascribe  at  least  one  virtue  to  their  most  infamous  crea 
tions " 

"  Oh,  Strelsa,  you  talk  like  a  pan  of  fudge !  /  tell 
you  that  Langly  Sprowl  is  no  good  at  all.  I  hope  you 
won't  have  to  marry  him  to  find  out." 

"  I  don't  intend  to.  ...  How  inconsistent  you  are, 
Molly.  You — and  everybody  else — believe  him  to  be 

the  most  magnificent  match  in " 

113 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  If  position  and  wealth  is  all  you  care  for,  yes.  I 
didn't  suppose  you'd  come  to  that." 

Strelsa  said  candidly :  "  I  care  for  both — I  don't 
know  how  much." 

"As  much  as  that?" 

"  No ;  not  enough  to  marry  him.  And  if  he  is  what 
you  say,  it's  hopeless  of  course.  ...  I  don't  think  he 
is.  Be  decent,  Molly ;  everybody  is  very  horrid  about 
him,  and — and  that  is  always  a  matter  of  sympathetic 
interest  to  a  generous  woman.  When  the  whole  world 
condemns  a  man  it  makes  him  interesting !  " 

"  That's  a  piffling  and  emotional  thing  to  say !  He 
may  be  attractive  in  an  uncanny  way,  because  he's 
agreeable  to  look  at,  amusing,  and  very  dangerous 
•  a  perfectly  cold-blooded,  and  I  think,  slightly 
unbalanced  social  marauder.  And  that's  the  fact 
about  Langly  Sprowl,  And  I  wish  we  were  on  land, 
the  Yulan  and  her  owner  in — well,  in  the  Erie  Basin, 
perhaps." 

Whether  or  not  Strelsa  believed  these  things,  there 
still  remained  in  her  that  curious  sense  of  fascination 
in  Sprowl's  presence,  partly  arising,  no  doubt,  from  an 
instinctive  sympathy  for  a  young  man  so  universally 
damned;  partly,  because  she  thought  that  perhaps  he 
really  was  damned.  Therefore,  deep  in  her  heart  she 
felt  that  he  must  be  dangerous ;  and  there  is,  in  that 
one  belief,  every  element  of  unwholesome  fascination. 
And  a  mind  fatigued  is  no  longer  wholesome. 

Then,  too,  there  was  always  Sir  Charles  Mallison 
to  turn  to  for  a  refreshing  moral  bath.  Safety  of  soul 
lay  in  his  vicinity ;  she  felt  confidence  in  the  world 
wherever  he  traversed  it.  With  him  she  relaxed  and 
rested ;  there  was  repose  for  her  in  his  silences ;  strength 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

for  her  when  he  spoke ;  and  a  serene  comradeship  which 
no  hint  of  sentiment  had  ever  vexed. 

Perhaps  only  a  few  people  realised  how  thoroughly 
a  single  winter  was  equipping  Strelsa  for  the  part  she 
seemed  destined  to  play  in  that  narrow  world  with 
which  she  was  already  identified ;  and  few  realised  how 
fast  she  was  learning.  Laxity  of  precept,  easy  morals, 
looseness  of  thought,  idle  and  good-natured  acquiescence 
in  social  conditions  where  all  standards  seemed  alike,  all 
ideals  merely  a  matter  of  personal  taste — this  was  the 
atmosphere  into  which  she  had  stepped  from  two  years 
of  Western  solitude  after  a  nightmare  of  violence, 
cruelty,  and  depravity  unutterable.  And  naturally  it 
seemed  heavenly  to  her;  and  each  revelation  inconsist 
ent  with  her  own  fastidious  instincts  left  her  less  and 
less  surprised,  less  and  less  uneasy.  And  after  a  while 
she  began  to  assimilate  all  that  she  saw  and  heard. 

A  few  unworldly  instincts  remained  in  her — grati 
tude  for  and  quick  response  to  any  kindness  offered  from 
anybody ;  an  inclination  to  make  friends  with  stray 
wanderers  into  her  circle,  and  to  cultivate  the  socially 
useless. 

Taking  four  o'clock  tea  alone  with  Mrs.  Sprowl  the 
afternoon  of  her  return  to  town — an  honour  vouchsafed 
to  few — Strelsa  was  relating,  at  that  masterful  woman's 
request,  her  various  exotic  experiences.  Mrs.  Sprowl 
had  commanded  her  attendance  early.  There  were  rea 
sons.  And  now  partly  vexed,  partly  in  unwilling  ad 
miration,  the  old  lady  sat  smiling  and  all  the  while 
thinking  to  herself  impatiently ;  "  Baby !  Fool !  Little 
ninny !  Imbecile!"  while  she  listened,  fat  bejewelled 
hands  folded,  small  green  eyes  shining  in  the  expanse 
of  powdered  and  painted  fat. 

115 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


After  a  while  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  she 
said  with  a  wheeze  of  good-natured  disdain  : 

"  It's  like  a  school-girl's  diary — all  those  rhapsodies 
over  volcanoes,  palm  trees,  and  the  colour  of  the  Span 
ish  Main.  Never  mind  geography,  child ;  tell  me  about 
the  men !  " 

"  Men  ?  "  repeated  Strelsa,  laughingly — "  why  there 
were  shoals  and  shoals  of  them,  of  every  descrip 
tion  !  " 

"I  mean  the  one  man?"  insisted  Mrs.  Sprowl  en 
couragingly. 

"Which,  please?" 

"  Nonsense !     There  was  one,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  .  .  .  Your  nephew,  Langly, 
was  exceedingly  amiable " 

"  He's  a  plain  beast,"  said  his  aunt,  bluntly.  "  I 
didn't  mean  him." 

"  He  was  very  civil  to  me,"  insisted  Strelsa,  colour 
ing. 

"  Probably  he  didn't  have  a  chance  to  be  otherwise. 
He's  a  rotter,  child.  Ask  anybody.  I  know  perfectly 
well  what  he's  been  up  to.  I'm  sorry  you  went  on  the 
Yulan.  He  had  no  business  to  ask  you — or  any  other 
nice  girl — or  anybody  at  all  until  that  Reno  scandal 
is  officially  made  respectable.  If  it  were  not  for  his 
money — "  She  stopped  a  moment,  adding  cynically — 
"  and  if  it  were  not  for  mine — certain  people  wouldn't 
be  tolerated  anywhere,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  How  did  you 
like  Sir  Charles?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  charming !  "  she  said  warmly. 

"You  like  him?" 

"  I  almost  adore  him." 

"  Why  not  adore  him  entirely  ?  " 
116 


1  Never  mind  geography,  child; 


tell  me  about  the  men!'" 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

Strelsa  laughed  frankly :  "  He  hasn't  asked  me  to, 
for  one  reason.  Besides " 

"  No  doubt  he'll  do  it." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  still  smiling: 

"  You  don't  understand  at  all.  There  isn't  the 
slightest  sentiment  between  us.  He's  only  thoroughly 
nice  and  agreeable,  and  he  and  I  are  most  companion 
able.  I  hope  nobody  will  be  silly  enough  to  hint  any 
thing  of  that  sort  to  him.  It  would  embarrass  him 
dreadfully." 

Mrs.  Sprowl's  smile  was  blandly  tolerant: 

"  The  man's  in  love  with  you.  Didn't  you  know 
it?  " 

"  But  you  are  mistaken,  dear  Mrs.  Sprowl.  If  it 
were  true  I  would  know  it,  I  think." 

"  Nonsense !     He  told  me  so." 

"  Oh,"  said  Strelsa  in  amazed  consternation.  She 
added :  "  If  it  is  so  I'd  rather  not  speak  of  it,  please." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  eyed  her  with  shifty  but  keen  intelli 
gence.  "  Little  idiot,"  she  thought ;  but  her  smile  re 
mained  bland  and  calmly  patronising. 

For  a  second  or  two  longer  she  studied  the  girl 
cautiously,  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  there 
was  really  any  character  in  Strelsa's  soft  beauty — any 
thing  firmer  than  material  fastidiousness ;  anything 
more  real  than  a  natural  and  dainty  reticence.  Mrs. 
Sprowl  could  ride  rough-shod  over  such  details.  But 
she  was  too  wise  to  ride  if  there  was  any  chance  of  a 
check  from  higher  sources. 

"  If  you  married  him  it  would  be  very  gratifying  to 
me,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "  Come ;  let's  discuss  the 
matter  like  sensible  women.  Shall  we?" 

Many  people  would  not  have  disregarded  such  a 
117 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

wish.  Strelsa  flushed  and  lifted  her  purple-gray  eyes 
to  meet  the  little  green  ones  scanning  her  slyly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  but  I  couldn't  discuss  such 
a  thing,  you  see.  Don't  you  see  I  can't,  dear  Mrs. 
Sprowl?" 

"  Pooh !  Rubbish !  Anybody  can  discuss  any 
thing,"  rejoined  the  old  lady  with  impersonal  and  bois 
terous  informality.  "  I'm  fond  of  you.  Everybody 
knows  it.  I'm  fond  of  Sir  Charles.  He's  a  fine  figure 
of  a  man.  You  match  him  in  everything,  except  wealth. 
It's  an  ideal  marriage 


"  Please  don't ! — I  simply  cannot " 

"  Ideal,"  repeated  Mrs.  Sprowl  loudly — "  an  ideal 
marriage " 

"  But  when  there  is  no  love " 

"  Plenty !  Loads  of  it !  He's  mad  about  you — 
crazy ! — 

"  I — meant — on  my  part — 

"  Good  God !  "  shouted  the  old  lady,  beating  the  air 
with  pudgy  hands — "  isn't  it  luck  enough  to  have  love 
on  one  side  ?  What  does  the  present  generation  want ! 
I  tell  you  it's  ideal,  perfect.  He's  a  good  man  as  men 
go,  and  a  devilish  handsome " 

"  I  know— but " 

"  And  he's  got  money !  "  shouted  the  old  lady — 
"  plenty  of  it  I  tell  you !  And  he  has  the  entree  every 
where  on  the  Continent — in  England — everywhere ! — 
which  Dankmere  has  not ! — if  you're  considering  that 
little  whelp !  " 

Stunned,  shrinking  from  the  dreadful  asthmatic 
noises  in  Mrs.  Sprowl's  voice,  Strelsa  sat  dumb,  wincing 
under  the  blows  of  sound,  not  knowing  how  to  escape. 

"  I'm  fond  of  you !  "  shrieked  the  old  lady — "  I  can 
118 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

be  of  use  to  you  and  I  want  to  be.  That's  why  I  asked 
you  to  tea !  I  want  to  make  you  happy — and  Sir 
Charles,  too !  What  the  devil  do  you  suppose  there  is 
in  it  for  me  except  to  oblige  hi — you  both  ?  " 

"  Th-thank  you,  but- 

"  I'll  bet  a  shilling  that  Molly  Wycherly  let  you  go 
about  with  any  little  spindle-shanked  pill  who  came 
hanging  around! — And  I  told  her  what  were  my 
wishes " 

"  Please — oh,  please,  Mrs.  Sprowl 

"  Yes,  I  did !  It's  a  good  match !  I  want  you  to 
consider  it ! — I  insist  that " 

"  Mrs.  Sprowl !  "  exclaimed  Strelsa,  pink  with  con 
fusion  and  resentment,  "  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the 
interest  you  display,  but  it  is  a  matter ' 

"What!" 

"  I  am  really — grateful — but 

"  Answer  me,  child.  Has  that  cursed  nephew  of 
mine  made  any  impression  on  you?  Answer  me!  " 

"  Not  the  kind  you  evidently  mean !  "  said  Strelsa, 
helplessly. 

"  Is  there  anybody  else  ?  " 

The  outrageous  question  silenced  the  girl  for  a  mo 
ment.  Angry,  she  still  tried  to  be  gentle ;  tried  to  re 
member  the  age,  and  the  excellent  intentions  of  this 
excited  old  lady ;  and  she  answered  in  a  low  voice : 

"  I  care  for  no  man  in  particular,  unless  it  be  Sir 
Charles — and — 

"And  who?" 

"  Mr.  Quarren,  I  think,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Sprowl's  jowl  grew  purple  with  fury: 

"  You — has    that   boy    had    the    impudence— damn 

him " 

119 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Strelsa  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  I  really  cannot  remain — "  she  said  with  decision, 
but  the  old  lady  only  bawled : 

"  Sit  down  !     Sit  down !  " 

"  I  will  not !  " 

"  Sit  down!  "  she  roared  in  a  passion.  "  What  the 
devil " 

Strelsa,  a  little  pale,  started  to  pass  her — then 
halted,  astounded:  for  the  old  lady  had  burst  into  a 
passion  of  choking  gasps.  Whether  the  terrible  sounds 
she  made  were  due  to  impotent  rage  or  asthma,  Strelsa, 
confused,  shocked,  embarrassed,  but  still  angry,  had  no 
notion ;  arid  while  Mrs.  Sprowl  coughed  fatly,  she  stood 
still,  catching  muffled  fragments  of  reproaches  directed 
at  people  who  flouted  friendship ;  who  had  no  considera 
tion  for  age,  and  no  gratitude,  no  tenderness,  no  pity. 

"  I — I  am  grateful,"  faltered  Strelsa,  "  only  I  can 
not " 

"  I  wanted  to  be  a  mother  to  you  !  I've  tried  to  be," 
wheezed  the  old  lady  in  a  fresh  paroxysm ;  and  beat  the 
air. 

For  one  swift  instant  the  girl  remembered  what  her 
real  mother  had  been  to  her ;  and  her  heart  hardened. 

"  I  care  only  for  your  friendship,  Mrs.  Sprowl ;  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  do  anything  for  me ;  can  we  not  be 
friends  on  that  basis  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sprowl  swabbed  her  inflamed  eyes  and  peered 
around  the  corner  of  the  handkerchief. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

Strelsa  went,  slowly ;  and  Mrs.  Sprowl  enveloped  her 
like  a  fleshy  squid,  panting. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  be  good  to  you,  Strelsa.     I'm 

just  an  old  fool  I  suppose " 

120 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Oh,  please  don't " 

"  That's  all  I  am,  child,  just  a  sentimental  old  fool. 
The  poor  man's  adoration  of  you  touched  my  heart — 
and  you  do  like  him  a  little,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Very  much.  .  .  .  Thank  you  for — for  wishing 
happiness  to  me.  I  really  don't  mean  to  be  ungrateful ; 
I  have  a  horror  of  ingratitude.  It's  only  that — the  idea 
never  occurred  to  me ;  and  I  am  incapable  of  doing  such 
a  thing  for  material  reasons,  unless — I  also  really  cared 
for  a  man " 

"  Of  course,  child.  Maybe  you  will  care  for  him 
some  day.  I  won't  interfere  any  more.  .  .  .  Only— 
don't  lose  your  heart  to  any  of  these  young  jackals 
fawning  around  your  skirts.  Every  set  is  full  of  'em. 
They're  nothing  but  the  capering  chorus  in  this  comic 
opera.  .  .  .  And — don't  be  angry — but  I  am  an  older 
and  wiser  woman  than  you,  and  I  am  fond  of  you,  and 
it's  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  an'y  of  the  lesser  breed — 
take  young  Quarren  for  example — are  of  no  real  ac 
count,  even  in  the  society  which  they  amuse." 

"  I  would  scarcely  class  Mr.  Quarren  with  the  sort 
you  mention " 

"  Why  not?    He's  of  no  importance." 

"  Because  he  is  kind,  considerate,  and  unusually  in 
telligent  and  interesting;  and  he  is  very  capable  of  suc 
ceeding  in  whatever  he  undertakes,"  said  Strelsa,  slowly. 

"  Ricky  is  a  nice  boy ;  but  what  does  he  undertake  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Sprowl  with  good-natured  contempt.  "  He 
undertakes  the  duties,  obligations,  and  details  of  a  use 
ful  man  in  the  greater  household,  which  make  him 
acceptable  to  us ;  and  I'm  bound  to  say  that  he  does  'em 
very  well.  But  outside  of  that  he's  a  nobody.  And  I'D 
tell  you  just  what  he'll  turn  into;  shall  I?  Society's 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

third  chief  bottlewasher  in  succession.  We  had  one,  who 
evolved  us.  He's  dead.  We  have  another.  He's  still  talk 
ing.  When  he  ultimately  evaporates  into  infinity  Ricky 
will  be  his  natural  successor.  Do  you  want  that  kind  of 
a  husband?  " 

"  Did  you  suppose " 

"  Don't  get  angry,  Strelsa?  I  didn't  suppose  any 
thing.  Ricky,  like  every  other  man,  dangles  his  good- 
looking,  good-humoured  self  in  your  vicinity.  You're 
inclined  to  notice  him.  All  I  mean  is  that  he  isn't  worth 
your  pains.  .  .  .  Now  you  won't  be  offended  by  a  plain- 
spoken  old  woman  who  wishes  only  your  happiness,  will 
you,  my  child?  " 

"  No,"  said  Strelsa,  wearily,  beginning  to  feel  the 
fatigue  of  the  scene. 

She  took  her  leave  a  few  moments  afterward,  very 
unhappy  because  two  of  the  pleasantest  incidents  in  her 
life  had  been  badly,  if  not  hopelessly,  marred.  But 
Langly  Sprowl  was  not  one  of  them. 

That  hatchet-faced  and  immaculate  gentleman, 
divining  possibly  that  Strelsa  might  be  with  his  aunt, 
arrived  shortly  after  her  departure ;  learned  of  it  from 
a  servant,  and  was  turning  on  his  heel  without  even  ask 
ing  for  Mrs.  Sprowl,  when  the  thought  occurred  to  him 
that  possibly  she  might  know  Strelsa's  destination. 

When  a  servant  announced  him  he  found  his  aunt 
quite  herself,  grim,  ready  for  trouble,  her  small  green 
eyes  fairly  snapping. 

They  indulged  in  no  formalities,  being  alone  to 
gether,  and  caring  nothing  for  servants'  opinions.  Their 
greeting  was  perfunctory;  their  inquiries  civil.  Then 
there  ensued  a  short  silence. 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Which  way  did  Mrs.  Leeds  go?  "  he  asked,  busily 
twisting  his  long  moustache. 

"  None  of  your  business,"  rejoined  his  aunt. 

He  looked  up  in  slight  surprise,  recognised  a  condi 
tion  of  things  which,  on  second  thought,  surprised  him 
still  more.  Because  his  aunt  had  never  before  noticed 
his  affairs — had  not  even  commented  on  the  Ledwith 
matter  to  him.  He  had  always  felt  that  she  disliked 
him  too  thoroughly  to  care. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understood  you,"  he  said,  watching 
her  out  of  shifting  eyes  which  protruded  a  trifle. 

"  I  think  you  will  understand  me  before  I've  done 
with  you,"  returned  his  aunt,  grimly.  "  It's  a  perfectly 
plain  matter;  you've  the  rest  of  the  female  community 
to  chase  if  you  choose.  Go  and  chase  'em  for  all  I  care 
— hunt  from  here  to  Reno  if  you  like! — but  I  have 
other  plans  for  Strelsa  Leeds.  Do  you  understand  ?  I've 
put  my  private  mark  on  her.  There's  no  room  for  yours." 

Langly's  gaze  which  had  not  met  hers — and  never 
met  anybody's  for  more  than  a  fraction  of  a  second — 
shifted.  He  continued  his  attentions  to  his  moustache ; 
his  eyes  roved;  he  looked  at  but  did  not  see  a  hundred 
things  in  a  second. 

"You  don't  know  where  she's  gone?"  he  inquired 
with  characteristic  pertinacity  and  an  indifference  to 
what  she  had  said,  absolutely  stony. 

"  Do  you  mean  trouble  for  that  girl  ?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Do  you  want  to  marry  her?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  was  considering  nothing  in  particular. 
We  are  friends." 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Keep  away  from  her !     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  really  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not.  I  sup 
pose  you  mean  Sir  Charles." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  turned  red: 

"  Suppose  what  you  like,  you  cold-blooded  cad ! 
But  by  God ! — if  you  annoy  that  child  I'll  empty  the 
family  wash  all  over  the  sidewalk !  And  let  the  pub 
lic  pick  it  over !  " 

He  rested  his  pale,  protuberant  eyes  on  her  for  a 
brief  second: 

"  Will  any  of  your  finery  figure  in  it?  Any  relics 
or  rags  once  belonging  to  the  late  parent  of  Sir 
Charles?" 

Her  features  were  livid ;  her  lips  twisted,  tortured 
under  the  flood  of  injuries  which  choked  her.  Not  a 
word  came.  Exhausted  for  a  moment  she  sat  there 
grasping  the  gilded  arms  of  her  chair,  livid  as  the  dead 
save  for  the  hell  blazing  in  her  tiny  green  eyes. 

"  I  fancy  that  settles  the  laundry  question,"  he  said, 
while  his  restless  glance  ceaselessly  swept  the  splendid 
room  and  his  lean,  sunburnt  hand  steadily  caressed  his 
moustache.  Then,  as  though  he  had  forgotten  some 
thing,  he  rose  and  walked  out.  A  footman  invested  him 
with  hat  and  overcoat.  A  moment  later  the  great  doors 
clicked. 

In  the  silence  of  the  huge  house  there  was  not  a 
sound  except  the  whispers  of  servants ;  and  these  ceased 
presently. 

All  alone,  amid  the  lighted  magnificence  of  the  vast 
room  sat  the  old  woman  hunched  in  her  chair,  bloodless, 
motionless  as  a  mass  of  dead  flesh.  Even  the  spark  in 
her  eyes  was  gone,  the  lids  closed,  the  gross  lower  lip 
pendulous.  Later  two  maids,  being  summoned,  accom- 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


panied  her  to  her  boudoir,  and  were  dismissed.  Her 
social  secretary,  a  pretty  girl,  came  and  left  with  in 
structions  to  cancel  invitations  for  the  evening. 

A  maid  arrived  with  a  choice  of  headache  remedies ; 
then,  with  the  aid  of  another,  disrobed  her  mistress  and 
got  her  into  bed. 

Their  offices  accomplished,  they  were  ordered  to 
withdraw  but  to  leave  one  light  burning.  It  glimmered 
over  an  old-fashioned  photograph  on  the  wall — the  por 
trait  of  a  British  officer  taken  in  the  days  when  whiskers, 
"  pill-box,"  and  frogged  frock-tunic  were  cultivated  in 
Her  British  Majesty's  Service. 

From  where  she  lay  she  looked  at  him ;  and  Sir  Wey- 
ward  Mallison  stared  back  at  her  through  his  monocle. 

Strelsa  at  home,  unpinning  her  hat  before  the  mir 
ror,  received  word  over  the  telephone  that  Mrs.  Sprowl, 
being  indisposed,  regretfully  recalled  the  invitations  for 
the  evening. 

The  girl's  first  sensation  was  relief,  then  self- 
reproach,  quite  forgetting  that  if  Mrs.  Sprowl's  violent 
emotions  had  made  that  redoubtable  old  woman  ill,  they 
had  also  thoroughly  fatigued  the  victim  of  her  ill- 
temper  and  made  her  very  miserable. 

She  wrote  a  perfunctory  note  of  regret  and  civil 
inquiry  and  dispatched  it,  then  surrendered  herself  to 
the  ministrations  of  her  maid. 

The  luxury  of  dining  alone  for  the  first  time  in 
months,  appealed  to  her.  She  decided  that  she  was  not 
to  be  at  home  to  anybody. 

Langly  Sprowl  called  about  six,  and  was  sent  away. 
Strelsa,  curled  up  on  a  divan,  could  hear  the  staccato 
racket  that  his  powerful  racing-car  made  in  the  street 

125 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

outside.  The  informality  of  her  recent  host  aboard  the 
Yulan  did  not  entirely  please  her.  She  listened  to  his 
departure  with  quiet  satisfaction. 

Although  it  was  not  her  day,  several  people  came 
and  went.  Flowers  from  various  smitten  youths  ar 
rived  ;  orchids  from  Sprowl ;  nothing  from  Quarren. 
Then  for  nearly  two  hours  she  slept  where  she  lay  and 
awakened  laughing  aloud  at  something  Quarren  had 
been  saying  in  her  dream.  But  what  it  was  she  could 
not  recollect. 

At  eight  her  maid  came  and  hooked  her  into  a  com 
fortable  and  beloved  second-year  gown ;  dinner  was  an 
nounced  ;  she  descended  the  stairway  in  solitary  state, 
still  smiling  to  herself  at  Quarren's  forgotten  remark, 
and  passed  by  the  library  just  as  the  telephone  rang 
there. 

It  may  have  been  a  flash  of  clairvoyance — afterward 
she  wondered  exactly  what  it  was  that  made  her  say  to 
her  maid  very  confidently : 

"  That  is  Mr.  Quarren.     I'll  speak  to  him." 

It  was  Mr.  Quarren.  The  amusing  coincidence  of 
her  dream  and  her  clairvoyance  still  lingering  in  her 
mind,  she  went  leisurely  to  the  telephone  and  said: 

"  I  don't  understand  how  I  knew  it  was  you.  And 
I'm  not  sure  why  I  came  to  the  'phone,  because  I'm  not 
at  home  to  anybody.  But  what  was  it  you  said  to  me 
just  now?  " 

"When?" 

"  A  few  minutes  ago  while  I  was  asleep?  " 

"  About  eight  o'clock?  " 

She  laughed :  "  It  happened  to  be  a  few  minutes 
before  eight.  How  did  you  know  that?  I  believe  you 
did  speak  to  me  in  my  dream.  Did  you?  " 

126 


"Strelsa,  curled  upon  a  divan  .  .  .  listened  to  his  departure  with 
quiet  satisfaction." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  did." 

"Really?" 

"  I  said  something  aloud  to  you  about  eight  o'clock." 

"  How  odd !  Did  you  know  I  was  asleep  ?  But  you 
couldn't " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I  was  merely  thinking  of 
you." 

"  You  were — you  happened  to  be  thinking  of  me? 
And  you  said  something  aloud  about  me?  " 

"  About  you — and  to  you." 

"  How  delightfully  interesting !  What  was  it, 
please?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  talking  nonsense." 

"Won't  it  bear  repetition?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  Mr.  Quarren  !  How  maddening !  I'm  dying  with 
curiosity.  I  dreamed  that  you  said  something  very 
amusing  to  me  and  I  awoke,  laughing ;  but  now  I  simply 
cannot  recollect  what  it  was  you  said." 

"  I'll  tell  you  some  day." 

"  Soon?    Would  you  tell  me  this  evening?  " 

"How  can  I?" 

"  That's  true.  I'm  not  at  home  to  anybody.  So 
you  can't  drop  in,  can  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  logical ;  I  could  drop  in  because  I'm 
not  anybody " 

"  What !  " 

"  I'm  not  anybody  in  particular " 

"  You  know  if  you  begin  to  talk  that  way,  after  all 
these  days,  I'll  ring  off  in  a  rage.  You  are  the  only 
man  in  the  world  to  whom  I'm  at  home  even  over  the 
telephone,  and  if  that  doesn't  settle  your  status  with 
me,  what  does?  .  .  .  Are  you  well,  Mr.  Quarren?" 

127 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Thank  you,  perfectly.  I  called  you  up  to  ask  you 
about  yourself." 

"  I'm  tired,  somehow." 

"  Oh,  we  are  all  that.  Nothing  more  serious  threat 
ens  you  than  impending  slumber?  " 

"  I  said  I  was  tired,  not  sleepy.  I'm  wide  awake  but 
horribly  lazy — and  inclined  to  slump.  Where  are  you ; 
at  the  Legation  ?  " 

"  At  the  Founders'  Club— foundered." 

*'  What  are  you  doing  there?  " 

"  Absolutely  nothing.     Reading  the  Evening  Post.'9 

"  You  are  dining  out  I  suppose?  " 

"  No." 

She  reflected  until  he  spoke  again,  asking  if  she 
was  still  there. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I'm  trying  to  think  whether  I  want  you 
to  come  around  and  share  a  solitary  dinner  with  me. 
Do  I  want  you?  " 

"  Just  a  little — don't  you?  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  come?  " 

«  Yes." 

•"Very   much?" 

•"  I  can't  tell  you  how  much — over  the  telephone." 

"  That  sounds  both  humble  and  dangerous.  Which 
do  you  mean  to  be?  " 

"  Humble — and  very,  very  grateful,  dear  lady.  May 
I  come?" 

"  I — don't  know.  Dinner  was  announced  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago." 

"  It  won't  take  me  three  minutes 

•"  If  it  takes  you  more  you'll  ring  my  door-bell  in 
vain,  young  man." 

"  I'll  start  now !     Good " 

128 


5  Do  you  remember  our  first 


1 


toast?'  he  asked,  smiling. 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Wait !  I  haven't  decided.  Really  I'm  simply 
stupid  with  the  accumulated  fatigues  of  two  months'' 
frivolity.  Do  you  mind  my  being  stupid?  " 

"  You  know  I  don't— 

"  Shame  on  you !  That  was  not  the  answer.  Think 
out  the  right  one  on  your  way  over.  A  bien  tot!  " 

She  had  been  in  the  drawing-room  only  a  few  mo 
ments,  looking  at  the  huge  white  orchids  that  Langly 
Sprowl  had  sent  and  which  her  butler  was  arranging, 
when  Quarren  was  announced ;  and  she  partly  turned 
from  the  orchids,  extending  her  hand  behind  her  in  a 
greeting  more  confident  and  intimate  than  she  had  ever 
before  given  him. 

"  Look  at  these  strange,  pansy-shaped  Brazilian 
flowers,"  she  said.  "  Kindly  observe  that  they  are  actu 
ally  growing  out  of  that  ball  of  moss  and  fibre." 

She  had  retained  his  hand  for  a  fraction  of  a  second 
longer  than  conventional  acquaintance  required,  giving 
it  a  frank  and  friendly  pressure.  Now,  loosing  it,  she 
found  her  own  fingers  retained,  and  drew  them  away 
with  a  little  laugh  of  self-consciousness. 

"  Sentiment  before  dinner  implies  that  you'll  have 
no  room  for  it  after  dinner.  Here  is  your  cocktail." 

"  Do  you  remember  our  first  toast  ? "  he  asked^ 
smiling. 

"  No." 

"  The  toast  to  friendship?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  remember  it." 

She  touched  her  lips  to  her  glass,  not  looking  at  him. 
He  watched  her.  After  a  moment  she  raised  her  eyes, 
met  his  gaze,  returned  it  with  one  quite  as  audacious : 

"  I  am  drinking  that  same  toast  again — after  many 
days,"  she  said. 

129 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  With  all  that  it  entails?  " 

She  nodded. 

"Its  chances,  hazards,  consequences?*1' 

She  laughed,  then,  looking  at  him,  deliberately 
sipped  from  her  glass,  the  defiant  smile  in  her  eyes  still 
daring  him  and  Chance  and  Destiny  together. 

When  he  took  her  out  she  was  saying :  "  I  really 
can't  account  for  my  mood  to-night.  I  believe  that 
seeing  you  again  is  reviving  me.  I  was  beastly  stupid." 

u  My  soporific  society  ought  to  calm,  not  exhilarate 
you." 

"  It  never  did,  particularly.  What  a  long  time  it 
is  since  we  have  seen  each  other.  I  am  glad  you  came." 

Seated,  she  asked  the  butler  to  remove  the  flowers 
which  interrupted  her  view  of  Quarren. 

"  You  haven't  said  anything  about  my  personal 
appearance,"  she  observed.  "  Am  I  very  much  battered 
by  my  merry  bouts  with  pleasure?  " 

;<  Not  much." 

"  You  wretch !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am 
marked  at  all?" 

"  You  look  rather  tired,  Mrs.  Leeds." 

"  I  know  I  do.  By  daylight  it's  particularly  visible. 
.  .  „  But — do  you  mind?  " 

Her  charming  head  was  bent  over  her  grapefruit : 
she  lifted  her  gray  eyes  under  level  brows,  looking  across 
the  table  at  him. 

"  I  mind  anything  that  concerns  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  mean — are  you  disappointed  because  I'm  grow 
ing  old  and  haggard  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  even  more  beautiful  than  you 
were." 

She  laughed  gaily  and  continued  her  dinner.  "  I 
180 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 


had  to  drag  that  out  of  you,  poor  boy.  But  you  see 
I'm  uneasy;  because  imprudence  is  stamping  the  horrid 
imprint  of  maturity  on  me  very  rapidly;  and  I'm  be 
ginning  to  keep  a  more  jealous  eye  on  my  suitors.  You 
were  one.  Do  you  deny  your  guilt  ?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Then  I  shall  never  release  you.  I  intend  to  let  no 
guilty  man  escape.  Am  I  very  much  changed,  Mr. 
Quarren  ?  "  she  said  a  trifle  wistfully. 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  After  a  few  mo 
ments  she  glanced  at  him  again  and  met  his  gaze. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  prompted  him,  laughing ;  "  are  you 
not  neglecting  your  manners  as  a  declared  suitor?  " 

"  You  have  changed."" 

"  What  a  perfect  pill  you  are ! "  she  exclaimed, 
vexed — "  you're  casting  yourself  for  the  role  of  the 
honest  friend — and  I  simply  hate  it !  Young  sir,  do 
you  not  understand  that  I've  breakfasted,  lunched 
and  dined  too  long  on  flattery  to  endure  anything  more 
wholesome?  If  you  can't  lie  to  me  like  a  gentleman 
and  a  suitor  your  usefulness  in  my  entourage  is  ended." 

He  said:  "  Do  you  want  me  to  talk  shop  with  you? 
I  get  rather  tired  of  my  trade,  sometimes.  It's  my  trade 
to  lie,  you  know.'9 

She  looked  up,  quickly,  but  he  was  smiling. 

They  remained  rather  silent  after  that.  Coffee  was 
served  at  table;  she  lighted  a  cigarette  for  him  and, 
later,  one  for  herself,  strolling  off  into  the  drawing-room 
with  it  between  her  fingers,  one  hand  resting  lightly  on 
her  hip. 

She  seemed  to  have  an  inclination  to  wander  about 
or  linger  before  the  marble  fireplace  and  blow  delicate 
rings  of  smoke  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

181 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

He  stood  a  little  distance  behind  her,  watching  her, 
and  she  nodded  affably  to  him  in  the  glass : 

"  I'm  quite  changed ;  you  are  right.  Tni  not  as  nice 
as  I  was  when  I  first  knew  you.  .  .  .  I'm  not  as  con 
tented  ;  I'm  restless — I  wasn't  then.  .  .  .  Amusement 
is  becoming  a  necessity  to  me ;  and  I'm  not  particular 
about  the  kind — as  long  as  it  does  amuse  me.  Tell  me 
something  exciting." 

"  A  cradle  song  is  what  you  require." 

"  How  impudent  of  you.  I've  a  mind  to  punish  you 
by  retiring  to  that  same  cradle.  I'm  dreadfully  cross, 
too.  Do  you  realise  that?" 

"  I  realise  how  tired  you  are." 

"And — I'll  never  again  be  rested,"  she  said  thought 
fully,  looking  at  her  mirrored  self.  "  I  seem  to  under 
stand  that,  now,  for  the  first  time.  .  .  .  Something  in 
me  will  always  remain  a  little  tired.  I  wonder  what. 
Do  you  know?  " 

"  Conscience?  "  he  suggested,  laughing. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?      I  thought  it  was  my  heart." 

"  Have  you  acquired  one  ?  " 

She  laughed,  too,  then  glanced  at  him  askance  in 
the  glass,  and  turned  around  toward  him,  still  smiling. 

"  I  believe  I  didn't  have  any  heart  when  I  first  knew 
you.  Did  I?" 

"  I  believe  not,"  he  said  lightly.  "  Has  one  germi 
nated?" 

"  I  really  don't  know.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

He  took  her  cigarette  from  her  and  tossed  it,  with 
his  own,  into  the  fire.  She  seated  herself  on  a  sofa  and 
bent  toward  the  blaze,  her  dimpled  elbows  denting  her 
silken  knees,  her  chin  balanced  between  forefinger  and 
thumb. 

132 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Presently  she  said,  not  looking  at  him :  "  Somehow, 
I've  changed.  I'm  not  the  woman  you  knew.  I'm  be 
ginning  to  realise  it.  It  seems  absurd :  it  was  only  a 
few  weeks  ago.  But  the  world  has  whirled  very  swiftly. 
Each  day  was  a  little  life-time  in  itself;  a  week  a  cen 
tury  condensed;  Time  became  only  a  concentrated 
essence,  one  drop  of  which  contained  aeons  of  experience. 
...  I  wonder  whether  my  silly  head  was  turned  a 
little.  .  .  .  People  said  too  much  to  me :  there  were  too 
many  of  them — and  they  came  too  near.  .  .  .  And  do 
you  know — looking  back  at  it  now  as  I  sit  here  talking 
to  you — I — it  seems  absurd — but  I  believe  that  I  was 
really  a  trifle  lonely  at  times." 

She  interlaced  her  fingers  and  rested  her  chin  on  the 
back  of  them. 

"  I  thought  of  you  on  various  occasions,"  she  added. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  mantel,  one  foot  on  the 
fender. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  that  foot,  then  lifted  slowly 
until  they  remained  fixed  on  his  face  which  was  shad 
owed  by  his  hand  as  though  to  shield  his  eyes  from  the 
bracket  light. 

For  a  time  she  sat  motionless,  considering  him,  in 
terested  in  his  silence  and  abstraction — in  the  set  of  his 
shoulders,  and  the  unconscious  grace  of  him.  Light, 
touching  his  short  blond  hair,  made  it  glossy  like  a 
boy's  where  his  hand  had  disarranged  it  above  the  fore 
head.  Certainly  it  was  very  pleasant  to  see  him  again 
— agreeable  to  be  with  him — not  exactly  restful,  per 
haps,  but  distinctly  agreeable — for  even  in  the  frequent 
silences  that  had  crept  in  between  them  there  was  no 
invitation  to  repose  of  mind.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
perfectly  conscious  of  a  reserve  force  now  awaking — 

133 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

of  a  growing  sense  of  freshness  within  her;  of  physical 
renewal,  of  unsuspected  latent  vigour. 

"  Are  you  attempting  to  go  to  sleep,  Mr.  Quarren?  " 
she  inquired  at  last. 

He  dropped  his  hand,  smiling:  she  made  an  instinc 
tive  move — scarcely  an  invitation,  scarcely  even  percep 
tible.  But  he  came  over  and  seated  himself  on  the  arm 
of  the  lounge  beside  her. 

"  Your  letters,"  he  said,  "  did  a  lot  for  me." 

"  I  wrote  very  few.  .  .  .  Did  they  really  interest 
you?" 

"  A  lot." 

"How?" 

"  They  helped  that  lame  old  gaffer,  Time,  to  limp 
along  toward  the  back  door  of  Eternity." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Otherwise  he  would  never  have  stirred  a  step — 
until  to-night." 

"  That  is  very  gallant  of  you,  Mr.  Quarren — but  a 
little  sentimental— isn't  it?  " 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  a  poor  judge  of  real  sentiment 
— being  unaccustomed  to  it." 

"  How  many  men  made  you  declarations  ?  " 

"  Oh ;  is  that  real  sentiment  ?  I  thought  it  was 
merely  love." 

He  looked  at  her.  "  Don't,"  he  said.  "  You  mustn't 
harden.  Don't  become  like  the  rest." 

She  said,  amused,  or  pretending  to  be :  "  You  are 
clever;  I  have  grown  hard.  To-day  I  can  survey,  un 
moved,  many,  many  things  which  I  could  not  even  look 
at  yesterday.  But  it  makes  life  more  interesting. 
Don't  you  think  so?  " 

134 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"Do  you,  Mrs.  Leeds?" 

"  I  think  so.  ...  A  woman  might  as  well  know  the 
worst  truths  about  life — and  about  men." 

"  Not  about  men." 

"  Do  you  prefer  her  to  remain  a  dupe  ?  " 

"  Is  anybody  happy  unless  life  dupes  them?  " 

"  By  '  life  '  you  mean  '  men.'  You  have  the  seraglio 
point  of  view.  You  probably  prefer  your  women 
screened  and  veiled." 

"  We  are  all  born  veiled.  God  knows  why  we  ever 
tear  the  film." 

"  Mr.  Quarren — are  you  becoming  misanthropic  ?  " 
she  exclaimed,  laughing.  But  under  his  marred  eyes  of 
a  boy  she  saw  shadows,  and  the  pale  induration  already 
stamped  on  the  flesh  over  the  cheek-bones. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  these 
weeks  ?  "  she  asked,  curiously. 

"  Working  at  my  trade." 

"  You  seem  thinner." 

"  Fewer  crumbs  have  fallen  from  the  banquet,  per 
haps.  I  keep  Lent  when  I  must." 

"  You  are  beginning  to  speak  in  a  way  that  you 
know  I  dislike — aren't  you  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  around 
in  her  seat  to  face  him. 

He  laughed. 

"  You  make  me  very  angry,"  she  said ;  "  I  like  you 
— I'm  quite  happy  with  you — and  suddenly  you  try  to 
tell  me  that  my  friendship  is  lavished  on  an  unworthy 
man ;  that  my  taste  is  low,  and  that  you're  a  kind  of  a 
social  jackal — an  upper  servant 

"  I  feed  on  what  the  pack  leaves — and  I  wash  their 
fragile  plates  for  them,"  he  said  lightly. 

"  What  else?  "  she  asked,  furious. 
135 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  take  out  the  unfledged  for  a  social  airing ;  I  ex 
ercise  the  mature ;  I  smooth  the  plumage  of  the  aged ; 
I  apply  first  aid  to  the  socially  injured;  lick  the  hands 
that  feed  me,  as  in  duty  bound;  tell  my  brother  jackals 
which  hands  to  lick  and  which  to  snap  at ;  curl  up  and 
go  to  sleep  in  sunny  boudoirs  without  being  put  out 
into  the  backyard ;  and  give  first-class  vaudeville  per 
formances  at  a  moment's  notice,  acting  as  manager, 
principals,  chorus,  prompter,  and  carpenter." 

He  laughed  so  gaily  into  her  unsmiling  eyes  that 
suddenly  she  lost  control  of  herself  and  her  fingers 
closed  tight. 

"  What  are  you  saying !  "  she  said,  fiercely.  "  Are 
you  telling  me  that  this  is  the  kind  of  a  man  I  care 
enough  for  to  write  to — to  think  about — think  about  a 
great  deal — care  enough  about  to  dine  with  in  my  own 
house  when  I  denied  myself  to  everybody  else !  Is  that 
all  you  are  after  all?  And  am  I  finding  my  level  by 
liking  you?  " 

He  said,  slowly :  "  I  could  have  been  anything — I 
could  be  yet — if  you — 

"If  you  are  not  anything  for  your  own  sake  you  will 
never  be  for  anybody's !  "  she  retorted.  ..."  I  refuse 
to  believe  that  you  are  what  you  say,  anyway.  It  hurts 
—it  hurts " 

"  It  only  hurts  me,  Mrs.  Leeds " 

"  It  hurts  me!  I  do  like  you.  I  was  glad  to  see 
you — you  don't  know  how  glad.  Your  letters  to  me 
were — were  interesting.  You  have  always  been  inter 
esting,  from  the  very  first — more  so  than  many  men — 
more  than  most  men.  And  now  you  admit  to  me  what 
kind  of  a  man  you  really  are.  If  I  believe  it,  what  am  I 
to  think  of  myself?  Can  you  tell  me?  " 

136 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Flushed,  exasperated  by  she  knew  not  what,  and 
more  and  more  in  earnest  every  moment,  she  leaned 
forward  looking  at  him,  her  right  hand  tightening  on 
the  arm  of  the  sofa,  the  other  clenched  over  her  twisted 
handkerchief. 

"  I  could  stand  anything ! — my  friendship  for  you 
could  stand  almost  anything  except  what  you  pretend 
you  are — and  what  other  malicious  tongues  will  say  if 
you  continue  to  repeat  it ! — And  it  has  been  said  already 
about  you!  Do  you  know  that?  People  do  say  that 
of  you.  People  even  say  so  to  me — tell  me  you  are 
worthless — warn  me  against — against " 

"What?" 

"  Caring — taking  you  seriously !  And  it's  because 
you  deliberately  exhibit  disrespect  for  yourself !  A  man 
— any  man  is  what  he  chooses  to  be,  and  people  always 
believe  him  what  he  pretends  to  be.  Is  there  any  harm 
in  pretending  to  dignity  and  worth  when — when  you 
can  be  the  peer  of  any  man?  What's  the  use  of  inviting 
contempt?  This  very  day  a  woman  spoke  of  you  with 
contempt.  I  denied  what  she  said.  .  .  .  I'd  rather 
they'd  say  anything  else  about  you — that  you  had  vices 
• — a  vigorous,  wilful,  unmanageable  man's  vices  ! — than 
to  say  that  of  you !  " 

"What?" 

"  That  you  amount  to  nothing." 

"  Do  you  care  what  they  say,  Mrs.  Leeds  ?  " 

"  Of  course !     It  strikes  at  my  own  self-respect !  " 

"  Do  you  care — otherwise?  " 

"  I  care — as  a  friend,  naturally " 

"Otherwise  still?" 

"  No !  " 

"  Could  you  ever  care?  " 
137 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  No,"  she  said,  nervously. 

She  sat  breathing  faster  and  more  irregularly, 
watching  him.  He  looked  up  and  smiled  at  her,  rested 
so,  a  moment,  then  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

She  stretched  out  one  arm  toward  the  electric  bell, 
but  her  fingers  seemed  to  miss  it,  and  remained  resting 
against  the  silk-hung  wall. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"Must  you?" 

"  I  think  I'd  better." 

"  Very  well." 

He  waited,  but  she  did  not  touch  the  bell  button. 
She  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to  go ;  so  he  offered 
his  hand,  pleasantly,  and  turned  away  toward  the  hall. 
And,  rising  leisurely,  she  descended  the  stairs  with  him 
in  silence. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  again. 

"  Good-night.     I  am  sorry  you  are  going." 

"  Did  you  wish  me  to  remain  a  little  longer?  " 

"  I — don't  know  what  I  wish.   .   .   ." 

Her  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed ;  the  hand  he  took 
into  his  again  seemed  burning. 

"  It's  fearfully  hot  in  here,"  she  said.  "  Please  muf 
fle  up  warmly  because  it's  bitter  weather  out  doors  " — 
and  she  lifted  the  other  hand  as  though  unconsciously 
and  passed  her  finger  tips  over  his  fur  collar. 

"  Do  you  feel  feverish?  " 

"  A  little.     Do  you  notice  how  warm  my  hand  is  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  caught  malaria  in  the  tropics,  have 
you?  " 

"  No,  you  funny  man.  I'm  never  ill.  Bat  it's  odd 
how  burning  hot  I  seem  to  be — 

138 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

She  looked  down  at  her  fingers  which  still  lay  loosely 
across  his. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while.  And,  little  by  little 
it  seemed  to  her  as  though  within  her  a  curious  stillness 
was  growing,  responsive  to  the  quiet  around  her — a 
serenity  stealing  over  her,  invading  her  mind  like  a  deli 
cate  mist — a  dreamy  mental  lethargy,  soothing,  obscur 
ing  sense  and  thought. 

Vaguely  she  was  aware  of  their  contact.  He  neither 
spoke  nor  stirred ;  and  her  palm  burned  softly,  melt- 
ingly  against  his. 

At  last  he  lifted  her  hand  and  laid  his  lips  to  it  in 
silence.  Small  head  lowered,  she  dreamily  endured  his 
touch — a  slight  caress  over  her  forehead — the  very 
ghost  of  contact ;  suffered  his  cheek  against  hers,  closer, 
never  stirring. 

Thought  drifted,  almost  dormant,  lulled  by  infinite 
and  rhythmical  currents  which  seemed  to  set  her  body 
swaying,  gently;  and,  listless,  non-resistant,  conscious 
of  the  charm  of  it,  she  gradually  yielded  to  the 
sorcery. 

Then,  like  a  shaft  of  sunlight  slanting  through  a 
dream  and  tearing  its  fabric  into  tatters,  his  kiss  on  her 
lips  awoke  her. 

She  strove  to  turn  her  mouth  from  his — twisted 
away  from  him,  straining,  tearing  her  body  from  his 
arms ;  and  leaned  back  against  the  stair-rail,  gray  eyes 
expressionless  as  though  dazed.  He  would  have  spoken, 
but  she  shook  her  head  and  closed  both  ears  with  her 
hands ;  nor  wrould  she  even  look  at  him,  now. 

Sight  and  hearing  sealed  against  him ;  pale,  expres 
sionless,  she  stood  there  awaiting  his  departure.  And 
presently  he  opened  the  iron  and  glass  door;  a  flurry 

139 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

of  icy  air  swept  her ;  she  heard  the  metallic  snap  of  the 
spring  lock,  and  opened  her  heavy  eyes. 

Deadly  tired  she  turned  and  ascended  the  stairs  to 
her  bedroom  and  locked  the  door  against  her  maid. 

Thought  dragged,  then  halted  with  her  steps  as  she 
dropped  onto  the  seat  before  the  dresser  and  took  her 
throbbing  head  in  her  hands.  Cheeks  and  lips  grew  hot 
ter  ;  she  was  aware  of  strange  senses  dawning ;  of 
strange  nerves  signalling;  stranger  responses — of  a 
subtle  fragrance  in  her  breath  so  strange  that  she  be 
came  conscious  of  it. 

She  straightened  up  staring  at  her  flushed  reflection 
in  the  glass  while  through  and  through  her  shot  new 
pulses,  and  every  breath  grew  tremulously  sweet  to  the 
verge  of  pain  as  she  recoiled  dismayed  from  the  un 
known. 

Unknown  still! — for  she  crouched  there  shrinking 
from  the  revelation — from  the  restless  wonder  of  the 
awakening,  wilfully  deaf,  blind,  ignorant,  defying  her 
other  self  with  pallid  flashes  of  self-contempt. 

Then  fear  came — fear  of  him,  fear  of  herself,  de 
fiance  of  him,  and  defiance  of  this  other  self,  glimpsed 
only  as  yet,  and  yet  already  dreaded  with  every  instinct. 
But  it  was  a  losing  battle.  Truth  is  very  patient.  And 
at  last  she  looked  Truth  in  the  eyes. 

So,  after  all,  she  was  what  she  had  understood  others 
were  or  must  one  day  become.  Unawakened,  pure  in 
her  inherent  contempt  for  the  lesser  passion ;  incredu 
lous  that  it  could  ever  touch  her ;  out  of  nothing  had 
sprung  the  lower  menace,  full  armed,  threatening  her 
— out  of  a  moment's  lassitude,  a  touch  of  a  man's  hand, 
and  his  lips  on  hers !  And  now  all  her  life  was  already 
behind  her — childhood,  girlhood,  wifehood — all,  all 

140 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

behind  her  now;  and  she,  a  stranger  even  to  herself, 
alone  on  an  unknown  road ;  an  unknown  world  before 
her. 

With  every  instinct  inherent  and  self-inculcated,  in 
stincts  of  modesty,  of  reticence,  of  self-control,  of 
pride,  she  quivered  under  this  fierce  humiliation  born  of 
self-knowledge — knowledge  scornfully  admitted  and  de 
fied  with  every  breath — but  no  longer  denied. 

She  was  as  others  were — fashioned  of  that  same  and 
common  clay,  capable  of  the  lesser  emotions,  shamefully 
and  incredibly  conscious  of  them — so  keenly,  so  incom 
prehensibly,  that,  at  one  unthinkable  instant,  they  had 
obscured  and  were  actually  threatening  to  obliterate 
the  things  of  the  mind. 

Was  this  the  evolution  that  her  winter's  idleness  and 
gaiety  and  the  fatigues  of  pleasure  had  been  so  subtly 
preparing  for  her?  Was  that  strange  moment,  at  the 
door,  the  moment  that  man's  enemy  had  been  awaiting, 
to  find  her  unprepared? 

Wretched,  humiliated,  she  bowed  her  head  above  the 
flowers  and  silver  on  her  dresser — the  fairest  among  the 
Philistines  who  had  so  long  unconsciously  thanked  God 
that  she  was  not  like  other  women  in  the  homes  of  Gath 
and  in  the  sinful  streets  of  Ascalon. 


CHAPTER    VI 

STRELSA  was  no  longer  at  home  to  Quarren,  even 
over  the  telephone.  He  called  her  up  two  or  three  times 
in  as  many  days,  ventured  to  present  himself  at  her 
house  twice  without  being  received,  and  finally  wrote 
her  a  note.  But  at  the  end  of  the  month  the  note  still 
remained  unanswered. 

However,  there  was  news  of  her,  sometimes  involv 
ing  her  with  Langly  Sprowl,  but  more  often  with  Sir 
Charles  Mallison.  Also,  had  Quarren  not  dropped  out 
of  everything  so  completely,  he  might  easily  have  met 
her  dozens  of  times  in  dozens  of  places.  But  for  a 
month  now  he  had  returned  every  day  from  his  office 
to  his  room  in  the  Legation,  and  even  the  members  of 
that  important  diplomatic  body  found  his  door  locked, 
after  dinner,  though  his  light  sometimes  brightened  the 
transom  until  morning. 

Westguard,  after  the  final  rupture  with  his  aunt, 
had  become  a  soured  hermit — sourer  because  of  the  low 
motives  of  the  public  which  was  buying  his  book  by  the 
thousands  and  reading  it  for  the  story,  exclusively. 

His  aunt  had  cast  him  off;  to  him  she  was  the  over 
fed  embodiment  of  society,  so  it  pleased  him  to  consider 
the  rupture  as  one  between  society  and  himself.  It 
tasted  of  martyrdom,  and  now  his  own  public  had  vul 
garly  gone  back  on  him  according  to  his  ideals :  nobody 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

cared  for  his  economics,  his  social  evils,  his  moral 
philosophy ;  only  what  he  considered  the  unworthy  part 
of  his  book  was  eagerly  absorbed  and  discussed.  The 
proletariat  had  grossly  betrayed  him ;  a  hermit's  ex 
emplary  but  embittered  career  was  apparently  all  that 
remained  for  his  declining  years. 

So,  after  dinner,  he,  too,  retired  to  seclusion  behind 
bolted  doors,  pondering  darkly  on  a  philosophic  novel 
which  should  be  no  novel  at  all  but  a  dignified  and 
crushing  rebuke  to  mankind — a  solid  slice  of  moral  cake 
thickly  frosted  with  social  economics,  heavy  with  ethical 
plums,  and  without  any  story  to  it  whatever. 

Meanwhile  his  book  had  passed  into  the  abhorred 
class  of  best  sellers. 

As  for  Lacy  and  O'Hara,  both  had  remarked  Quar- 
ren's  abrupt  retirement  and  his  absence  from  that  sec 
tion  of  the  social  puddle  which  he  was  accustomed  to  em 
bellish  and  splash  in.  O'Hara,  inclining  more  toward 
sporting  circles,  noticed  Quarren's  absence  less ;  but 
Lacy,  after  the  first  week,  demanded  an  explanation  at 
the  dinner-table. 

"  You  spoiled  a  party  for  Mrs.  Lannis,"  he  said — 
"  and  Winnif  red  Miller  was  almost  in  tears  over  the 
charity  tableaux " 

"  I  wrote  them  both  in  plenty  of  time,  Jack." 

"  Yes.  But  who  is  there  to  take  your  place  ?  What 
ever  you  touch  is  successful.  Barent  Van  Dyne  made 
a  dub  of  himself." 

"  They  must  break  in  another  pup,"  said  Quarren, 
amused. 

"  You  mean  that  you're  chucking  the  whole  bally 
thing  for  keeps?  " 

"  Practically." 

143 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  O'Hara,  looking  up  blankly. 

"  Oh,"  said  Quarren  laughing,  "  I'm  curious  to 
find  out  what  business  I  really  am  in.  Until  this  week 
I've  never  had  time  to  discover  that  I  was  trying  to 
be  a  broker  in  real  estate.  And  I've  just  found  out 
that  I've  been  one  for  almost  three  years,  and  never 
knew  it." 

"  One's  own  company  is  the  best,"  growled  West- 
guard.  "  The  monkey  people  sicken  you  and  the  public 
make  you  ill.  Solitude  is  the  only  remedy." 

"  Not  for  me,"  said  Quarren ;  "  I  could  breakfast, 
lunch,  and  dine  with  and  on  the  public ;  and  I'm  laying 
plans  to  do  it." 

"  They'll  turn  your  stomach " 

"  Oh,  dry  up,  Karl !  "  said  O'Hara ;  "  there's  a  me 
dium  between  extremes  where  you  can  get  a  good  sport- 
in'  chance  at  anythin' — horse,  dog,  girl — anythin'  you 
fancy.  You'd  like  some  of  my  friends,  now,  Ricky ! — 
they're  a  good  sort,  all  game,  all  jolly,  all  interestin'  as 
hell " 

"  /  don't  want  to  meet  any  cock-fighters,"  growled 
Westguard. 

"  They're  all  right,  too — but  there  are  all  kinds  of 
interestin'  people  in  my  circles — writers  like  Karl, 
huntin'  people,  a  professional  here  and  there — and  then 
there's  that  fascinatin'  Mrs.  Wyland-Baily,  the  best 
trap-shot 

"  Trap-shot,"  repeated  Westguard  in  disgust,  and 
took  his  cigar  and  himself  into  seclusion. 

Quarren  also  pushed  back  his  chair,  preparing  to 
rise. 

"  Doin'  anythin'  ?  "  inquired  O'Hara,  desiring  to  be 
kind.  "  Young  Calahan  and  the  Harlem  Mutt  have  it 

144 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

out  at  the  Cataract  Club  to-night,"  he  added  persua 
sively. 

"  Another  time,  thanks,"  said  Quarren :  "  I've  let 
ters  to  write." 

He  wrote  them — all  the  business  letters  he  could 
think  of,  concentrating  his  thoughts  as  much  as  possi 
ble.  Afterward  he  lay  down  on  the  lounge  with  a  book, 
and  remained  there  for  an  hour,  although  he  changed 
books  every  few  minutes.  This  was  becoming  a  bad 
habit.  But  it  was  difficult  reading  although  it  ranged 
from  Kipling  to  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer;  and  at 
last  he  gave  it  up  and,  turning  over  buried  his  head  in 
the  cushions. 

This  wouldn't  do  either :  he  racked  his  brain  for  fur 
ther  employment,  found  excuses  for  other  business  let 
ters,  wrote  them,  then  attacked  a  pile  of  social  matters 
— notes  and  letters  heretofore  deliberately  neglected  to 
the  ragged  edge  of  decency. 

He  replied  to  them  all,  and  invariably  in  the  nega 
tive. 

It  gave  him  something  to  do  to  go  out  to  the  nearest 
lamp  post  and  mail  his  letters.  But  when  again  he  came 
back  into  his  room  the  silence  there  left  him  hesitating 
on  his  threshold. 

But  he  went  in  and  locked  his  door,  and  kept  his 
back  turned  to  the  desk  where  pen  and  ink  were  tempting 
him  as  usual,  and  almost  beyond  endurance  now.  And 
at  last  he  weakened,  and  wrote  to  her  once  more: 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  LEEDS — 

"  I  feel  sure  that  your  failure  to  answer  my  note 
of  last  week  was  unintentional. 

145 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Some  day,  when  you  have  a  moment,  would  you 
write  me  a  line  saying  that  you  will  be  at  home  to  me? 
"  Very   sincerely  yours, 

"  RICHARD  STANLEY  QUARREN." 

He  took  this  note  to  the  nearest  District  Messenger 
Office ;  then  returned  to  his  room. 

After  an  interminable  time  the  messenger  reported 
for  the  signature.  Mrs.  Leeds  was  not  at  home  and  he 
had  left  the  note  as  directed. 

The  night  was  a  white  one.  He  did  not  feel  very 
well  when  he  sat  scanning  the  morning  paper  over  his 
coffee.  Recently  he  had  formed  the  custom  of  read 
ing  two  columns  only  in  the  paper — Real  Estate  News 
and  Society.  In  the  latter  column  Strelsa  usually 
figured. 

She  figured  as  usual  this  morning ;  and  he  read  the 
fulsome  stuff  attentively.  Also  there  was  a  flourish  con 
cerning  an  annual  event  at  the  Santa  Regina. 

And  Quarren  read  this  very  carefully ;  and  made  up 
his  mind  as  he  finished  the  paragraph. 

The  conclusion  he  came  to  over  his  coffee  and  news 
paper  materialised  that  afternoon  at  a  Charity  Bazaar, 
where,  as  he  intended,  he  met  Strelsa  Leeds  face  to  face. 
She  said,  coolly  amiable : 

"  Have  you  been  away?  One  never  sees  you  these 
days." 

"  I  have  been  nowhere,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

She  shook  her  pretty  head  in  reproof: 

"  Is  it  good  policy  for  a  young  man  to  drop  out  of 
sight?  Our  world  forgets  over-night." 

He  laughed :  "  Something  similar  has  been  intimated 
146 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

to    me    by    others — but    less    gently.      I'm    afraid    I've 
offended  some  people." 

"  Oh,  so  you  have  already  been  disciplined?  " 

"  Verbally  trounced,  admonished,  and  still  smarting 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  powers  that  reign.  They 
seem  to  resent  my  Sunday  out — yet  even  their  other 
domestics  have  that.  And  it's  the  first  I've  taken  in 
three  years.  I  think  I'll  have  to  give  notice  to  my 
Missus." 

"  The  spectre  of  servitude  still  seems  to  obsess  your 
humour,"  she  observed  indifferently. 

"  I  am  that  spectre,  Mrs.  Leeds." 

"  You  certainly  look  pallid  enough  for  any  disem 
bodied  role.  You  have  not  been  ill,  by  any  chance?  " 
• — carelessly. 

"  Not  at  all,  thank  you.  Rude  health  and  I  continue 
to  link  arms." 

"  Then  it  is  not  by  chance  that  you  absent  your 
self  from  the  various  festivities  where  your  part  is 
usually  supposed  to  be  a  leading  one?  " 

"  All  cooks  eventually  develop  a  distaste  for  their 
own  concoctions,"  he  explained  gravely. 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows :  "  Yet  you  are  here  this 
afternoon." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Charity  has  not  yet  palled  on  my  pal 
ate — perhaps  because  I  need  so  much  myself." 

"  I  have  never  considered  you  an  object  of  charity." 

"  Then  I  must  draw  your  kind  attention  to  my  piti 
able  case  by  doing  a  little  begging.  .  .  .  Could  I  ask 
your  forgiveness,  for  example?  And  perhaps  ob 
tain  it?" 

Her  face  flushed.  "  I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you, 
Mr.  Quarren,"  she  said  with  decision. 

147 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"Do  you  mean  that?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  take  your — generosity." 

"  I  offer  none.  There  is  no  occasion  for  generosity 
or  for  the  exercise  of  any  virtue,  cardinal  or  otherwise. 
You  have  not  offended  me,  nor  I  you — I  trust.  .  .  . 
Have  I?" 

"  No,"  he  said. 

Men  came  up  to  speak  to  her;  one  or  two  women 
nodded  to  her  from  nearby  groups  which  presently 
mingled,  definitely  separating  her  from  Quarren  unless 
either  he  or  she  chose  to  evade  the  natural  trend  of 
things.  Neither  made  the  effort.  Then  Sir  Charles 
Mallison  joined  her,  and  Quarren,  smilingly  accepting 
that  gentleman's  advent  as  his  own  conge,  took  his  leave 
of  Strelsa  and  went  his  way — which  chanced,  also,  to  be 
the  way  of  Mrs.  Lester  Caldera,  very  fetching  in  lilac 
gown  and  hat. 

Susanne  Lannis,  lips  slightly  curling,  looked  after 
them,  touching  Strelsa's  elbow: 

"  Cyrille  simply  cannot  let  Ricky  alone,"  she  said. 
"  The  bill-posters  will  find  a  fence  for  her  if  she  doesn't 
come  to  her  senses." 

"Who?"  asked  Strelsa,  as  one  or  two  people 
laughed  guardedly. 

"  Why,  Cyrille  Caldera.     Elle  s'affiche,  ma  chere!  " 

"  Mrs.  Caldera !  "  repeated  the  girl,  surprised. 

"  And  Ricky !  Are  you  blind,  Strelsa?  It's  been  on 
for  two  weeks  or  more.  And  she'd  better  not  play  too 
confidently  with  Ricky.  You  can  usually  forecast  what 
a  wild  animal  will  do,  never  how  a  trained  one  is  going 
to  behave." 

"  Such  scandal !  "  laughed  Chrysos  Lacy.  "  How 
148 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

many  of  us  can  afford  to  turn  our  backs  to  the  rest  of 
the  cage  even  for  an  instant?  Sir  Charles,  I  simply 
don't  dare  to  go  away.  Otherwise  I'd  purchase  several 
of  those  glittering  articles  yonder — whatever  they  are. 
Do  you  happen  to  know?  " 

"  Automatic  revolvers.  The  cartridges  are  charged 
with  Japanese  perfumes.  Did  you  never  see  one?  "  he 
asked,  turning  to  Strelsa.  But  she  was  not  listening; 
and  he  transferred  his  attention  to  Chrysos. 

Several  people  moved  forward  to  examine  the  pretty 
and  apparently  deadly  little  weapons ;  Sir  Charles  was- 
called  upon  to  explain  the  Japanese  game  of  perfumes,, 
and  everybody  began  to  purchase  the  paraphernalia,, 
pistols,  cartridges,  targets,  and  counters. 

Sir  Charles  came  back,  presently,  to  where  Strelsa 
still  stood,  listlessly  examining  laces. 

"  All  kinds  of  poor  people  have  blinded  themselves, 
making  these  pretty  things,"  she  said,  as  Sir  Charles 
came  up  beside  her.  "  My  only  apparent  usefulness  is. 
to  buy  them,  I  suppose." 

He  offered  her  one  of  the  automatic  pistols. 

"  It's  loaded,"  he  cautioned  her,  solemnly. 

"  What  an  odd  gift !  "  she  said,  surprised,  taking  it 
gingerly  into  her  gloved  hand.  "  Is  it  really  for  me  ?' 
And  why?" 

"Are  you  timid  about  firearms?"  he  asked,  jest 
ingly. 

"  No.  ...  I  don't  know  anything  about  them — ex 
cept  to  keep  my  finger  away  from  the  trigger.  I  know 
enough  to  do  that." 

He  supposed  that  she  also  was  jesting,  and  her  fas 
tidious  handling  of  the  weapon  amused  him.  And  when 
she  asked  him  if  it  was  safe  to  carry  in  her  muff,  he 

149 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

assured  her  very  gravely  that  she  might  venture  to  do 
so.  "  Turn  it  loose  on  the  first  burglar,"  he  added, 
"  and  his  regeneration  will  begin  in  all  the  forty-nine 
odours  of  sanctity." 

Strelsa  smiled  without  comprehending.  Cyrille 
Caldera  was  standing  just  beyond  them,  apparently  in 
terested  in  antique  jewellery,  trying  the  effect  of  various 
linked  gems  against  her  lilac  gown,  and  inviting  Quar- 
ren's  opinion  of  the  results.  Their  backs  were  turned; 
Ricky's  blond  head  seemed  to  come  unreasonably  close 
to  Cyrille's  at  moments.  Once  Mrs.  Caldera  thought 
lessly  laid  a  pretty  hand  on  his  arm  as  though  in  em 
phasis.  Their  unheard  conversation  was  evidently 
amusing  them. 

Strelsa's  smile  remained  unaltered ;  people  were  com 
ing  constantly  to  pay  their  respects  to  her;  and  they 
lingered,  attracted  and  amused  by  her  unusual  gaiety, 
charm,  and  wit. 

Her  mind  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  crystal 
clear ;  her  gay  retorts  to  lively  badinage,  and  her  laugh 
ing  epigrams  were  deliciously  spontaneous.  A  slight 
exhilaration,  without  apparent  reason,  was  transforming 
her,  swiftly,  into  an  incarnation  entirely  unknown  even 
to  herself. 

Conscious  of  a  wonderful  mood  never  before  experi 
enced,  perfectly  aware  of  her  unusual  brilliancy  and 
beauty,  surprised  and  interested  in  the  sudden  revela 
tion  of  powers  within  her  still  unexercised,  she  felt  her 
self,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  in  contact  with  things 
heretofore  impalpable — and,  in  spirit,  with  delicate 
fingers,  she  gathered  up  instinctively  those  intangible 
threads  with  which  man  is  guided  as  surely  as  though 
driven  in  chains  of  steel. 

150 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


And  all  the  while  she  was  aware  of  Quarren's  boy 
ish  head  bending  almost  too  near  to  Cyrille  Caldera's 
over  the  trays  of  antique  jewels;  and  all  the  while  she 
was  conscious  of  the  transfiguration  in  process — that 
not  only  a  new  self  was  being  evolved  for  her  out  of  the 
debris  of  the  old,  but  that  the  world  itself  was  changing 
around  her — and  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  earth  were 
being  born — and  a  new  hell. 

That  evening  she  fought  it  out  with  herself  with  a 
sort  of  deadly  intelligence.  Alone  in  her  room,  seated* 
and  facing  her  mirrored  gaze  unflinchingly,  she  stated 
her  case,  minutely,  to  herself  from  beginning  to  end; 
then  called  the  only  witness  for  the  prosecution — her 
self — and  questioned  that  witness  without  mercy. 

Did  she  care  for  Quarren?  Apparently.  How 
much  ?  A  great  deal.  Was  she  in  love  with  him  ?  She 
could  not  answer.  Wherein  did  he  differ  from  other 
men  she  knew- — Sir  Charles,  for  example?  She  only 
knew  that  he  was  different.  Perhaps  he  was  nobler? 
No.  More  intelligent?  No.  Kinder?  No.  More  ad 
mirable?  No.  More  gentle,  more  sincere,  less  selfish? 
No.  Did  he,  as  a  man,  compare  favorably  with  other 
men — Sir  Charles  for  example?  The  comparison  was 
not  in  Quarren's  favor. 

Wherein,  then,  lay  her  interest  in  him?  She  could 
not  answer.  Was  she  perhaps  sorry  for  him?  Very. 
Why?  Because  she  believed  him  capable  of  better 
things.  Then  the  basis  of  her  regard  for  him  was 
founded  on  pity.  No;  because  from  the  beginning — 
even  before  he  had  unmasked — she  had  been  sensible  of 
an  interest  in  him  different  from  any  interest  she  had 
ever  before  felt  for  any  man. 

This  uncompromisingly  honest  answer  silenced  her 
151 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

mentally  for  some  moments ;  then  she  lifted  her  resolute 
gray  eyes  to  the  eyes  of  the  mirrored  witness : 

If  that  is  true,  then  the  attraction  was  partly  phys 
ical?  She  could  not  answer.  Pressed  for  a  statement 
she  admitted  that  it  might  be  that. 

Then  the  basis  of  her  regard  for  him  was  ignoble? 
She  found  pleasure  in  his  intellectual  attractions.  But 
the  basis  had  not  been  intellectual?  No.  It  had  been 
material?  Yes.  And  she  had  never  forgotten  the  light 
pressure  of  that  masked  Harlequin's  spangled  arm 
around  her  while  she  desperately  counted  out  the  sec 
onds  of  that  magic  minute  forfeited  to  him?  No;  she 
had  never  forgotten.  It  was  a  sensation  totally  un 
known  to  her  before  that  moment?  Yes.  Had  she  ex 
perienced  it  since  that  time?  Yes.  When?  When  he 
first  told  her  that  he  loved  her.  And  afterward?  Yes. 
When? 

In  the  cheeks  of  the  mirrored  witness  a  faint  fire 
began  to  burn:  her  own  face  grew  pink:  but  she  an 
swered,  looking  the  shadowy  witness  steadily  in  the 
eyes : 

"When  he  took  my  hand  at  the  door — and  during — 
whatever  happened — afterward." 

And  she  excused  the  witness  and  turned  her  back 
to  the  looking-glass. 

The  only  witness  for  the  defence  was  the  accused — 
unless  her  own  heart  were  permitted  to  testify.  Or — 
and  there  seemed  to  be  some  slight  confusion  here — was 
Quarren  on  trial?  Or  was  she  herself? 

This  threatened  to  become  a  serious  question ;  she 
strove  to  think  clearly,  to  reason ;  but  only  evoked  the 
pale,  amused  face  of  Quarren  from  inner  and  chaotic 
consciousness  until  the  visualisation  remained  fixed,  de- 

152 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

fying  obliteration.    And  she  accepted  the  mental  spectre 
for  the  witness  box. 

"  Ricky,"  she  said,  "  do  you  really  love  me  ?  " 

But  the  clear-cut,  amused  face  seemed  to  mock  her 
question  with  the  smile  she  knew  so  well — so  well,  alas ! 

"  Why  are  you  unworthy  ?  "  she  said  again — "  you 
who  surely  are  equipped  for  a  nobler  life.  What  is  it 
in  you  that  I  have  responded  to?  If  a  woman  is  so 
colourless  as  to  respond  merely  to  love  in  the  abstract, 
she  is  worth  nothing  better,  nothing  higher,  than  what 
she  has  evoked.  For  you  are  no  better  than  other  men, 
Ricky ;  indeed  you  are  less  admirable  than  many ;  and 
to  compare  you  to  Sir  Charles  is  not  advantageous  to 
you,  poor  boy — poor  boy." 

In  vain  she  strove  to  visualise  Sir  Charles ;  she  could 
not.  All  she  could  do  was  to  mentally  enumerate  his 
qualities ;  and  she  did  so,  the  amused  face  of  Quarren 
looking  on  at  her  from  out  of  empty  space. 

"  Ricky,  Ricky,"  she  said,  "  am  I  no  better  than 
that? — am  I  fit  only  for  such  a  response? — to  find  the 
contact  of  your  hand  so  wonderful? — to  thrill  with  the 
consciousness  of  your  nearness — to  let  my  senses  drift, 
contented  merely  by  your  touch — yielding  to  the  charm 
of  it — suffering  even  your  lips'  embrace " 

She  shuddered  slightly,  drawing  one  hand  across 
her  eyes,  then  sitting  straight,  she  faced  his  smiling 
phantom,  resolute  to  end  it  now  forever. 

"  If  I  am  such  a  woman,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are 
the  kind  of  man  I  know  you  to  be — then  is  it  time  for 
me  to  fast  and  pray,  lest  I  enter  into  temptation.  .  .  . 
Into  the  one  temptation  I  have  never  before  known, 
Ricky — and  which,  in  my  complacency  and  pride  I  never 
dreamed  that  I  should  encounter. 

153 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

.  "  And  it  is  coming  to  that !  .  .  .  A  girl  must  be 
honest  with  herself  or  all  life  is  only  the  same  smiling  lie. 
I'm  ashamed  to  be  honest,  Ricky ;  but  I  must  be.  You 
are  not  very  much  of  a  man — otherwise  I  might  find 
some  reason  for  caring:  and  now  there  is  none;  and  yet 
— I  care — God  knows  why — or  what  it  is  in  you  that 
I  care  for! — But  I  do — I  am  beginning  to  care — and  I 
don't  know  why;  I — don't — know  why — • — 

She  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands,  sitting  there 
bowed  low  over  her  knees.  And  there,  hour  after  hour 
she  fought  it  out  with  herself  and  with  the  amused 
spectre  ever  at  her  elbow — so  close  at  moments  that 
some  unaroused  nerve  fell  a-trembling  in  its  sleep, 
threatening  to  awaken  those  quiet  senses  that  she 
already  feared  for  their  unknown  powers. 

The  season  was  approaching  its  end,  still  kicking 
now  and  then  spasmodically,  but  pretty  nearly  done  for. 
No  particularly  painful  incidents  marked  its  demise  ex 
cept  the  continued  absence  of  Quarren  from  social  pur 
lieus  accustomed  to  his  gay  presence  and  adroit  execu 
tive  abilities. 

After  several  demoralised  cotillions  had  withstood 
the  shock  of  his  absence,  and  a  dozen  or  more  functions 
had  become  temporarily  disorganised  because  he  de 
clined  to  occupy  himself  with  their  success ;  and  after 
a  number  of  hostesses  had  filled  in  his  place  at  din 
ner,  at  theatres,  at  week-ends,  on  yachts  and  coaches ; 
and  after  an  unprecedented  defiance  of  two  sum 
monses  to  the  hazardous  presence  of  Mrs.  Sprowl,  he 
obeyed  a  third  subprena,  and  presented  himself  with 
an  air  of  cheerful  confidence  that  instantly  enraged 
her. 

154 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALOX 

The  old  lady  lay  abed  with  nothing  more  compro 
mising  than  a  toothache ;  Quarren  was  conducted  to  the 
inner  shrine;  she  glared  at  him  hideously  from  her 
pillows ;  and  for  one  moment  he  felt  seriously  inclined 
to  run. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  she  wheezed. 

"  Nowhere  in  particu — 

"  I  know  damn  well  you've  been  nowhere,"  she  burst 
out.  "  Molly  Wycherly's  dance  went  to  pieces  because 
she  was  fool  enough  to  trust  things  to  you.  Do  you 
know  who  led?  That  great  oaf,  Barent  Van  Dyne !  He 
led  like  a  trick  elephant,  too !  " 

Quarren  looked  politely  distressed. 

"  And  there  are  a  dozen  hostesses  perfectly  furious 
with  you,"  continued  the  old  lady,  pounding  the  pillows 
with  a  fat  arm — "  parties  of  all  sorts  spoiled,  idiocies 
committed,  dinners  either  commonplace  or  blank  fail 
ures — what  the  devil  possesses  you  to  behave  this 
way?" 

"  I'm  tired,"  he  said,  politely. 

"  What !  " 

He  smiled : 

"  Oh,  the  place  suits,  Mrs.  Sprowl ;  I  haven't 
any  complaint ;  and  the  work  and  wages  are  easy ; 
and  it's  comfortable  below-stairs.  But  —  I'm  just 
tired." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I'm  talking  about  my  employers,  and  I'm  talking 
like  the  social  upper-servant  that  I  am — or  was.  I'm 
merely  giving  a  respectable  warning;  that  is  the  airy 
purport  of  my  discourse,  Mrs.  Sprowl." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you're  saying  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  he  said,  wearily. 
155 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Well,  then,  what  the  devil  are  you  saying?  " 

"  Merely  that  I've  dropped  out  of  service  to  en 
gage  in  trade." 

"  You  can't !  "  she  yelled,  sitting  up  in  bed  so  sud 
denly  that  her  unquiet  tooth  took  the  opportunity  to 
assert  itself. 

She  clapped  a  pudgy  hand  to  her  cheek,  squinting 
furiously  at  Quarren: 

"  You  can't  drop  out,"  she  shouted.  "  Don't  you 
ever  want  to  amount  to  anything?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.     That's  why  I'm  doing  it." 

"  Don't  act  like  a  fool !  Haven't  you  any  ambi 
tion?  " 

"  That  also  is  why,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "  I  am 
ambitious  to  be  out  of  livery  and  see  what  my  own  kind 
will  do  to  me." 

"Well,  you'll  see!"  she  threatened — "you'll  see 
what  we'll  do  to  you " 

"  You're  not  my  kind.  I  always  supposed  you  were, 
but  you  all  knew  better  from  the  day  I  took  service  with 
you-  -" 

"  Ricky !  " 

"  It  is  perfectly  true,  Mrs.  Sprowl.  My  admittance 
included  a  livery  and  the  perennial  prerogative  of  amus 
ing  people.  But  I  had  no  money,  no  family  affiliations 
with  the  very  amiable  people  who  found  me  useful. 
Only,  in  common  with  them,  I  had  the  inherent  taste 
for  idleness  and  the  genius  for  making  it  endurable  to 
you  all.  So  you  welcomed  me  very  warmly ;  and  you 
have  been  very  kind  to  me.  .  .  .  But,  somewhere  or 
other — in  some  forgotten  corner  of  me — an  odd  and 
old-fashioned  idea  awoke  the  other  day.  ...  I  think 
perhaps  it  awoke  when  you  reminded  me  that  to  serve 

156 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

you  was  one  thing  and  to  marry  among  you  something 
very  different." 

"  Ricky !  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  to  the  yelling 
verge  of  distraction?  I  didn't  say  or  intimate  or  dream 
any  such  thing!  You  know  perfectly  well  you're  not 
only  with  us  but  of  us.  Nobody  ever  imagined  other 
wise.  But  you  can't  marry  any  girl  you  pick  o**t. 
Sometimes  she  won't;  sometimes  her  family  won't.  It's 
the  same  everywhere.  You  have  no  money.  Of  course 
I  intend  that  you  shall  eventually  marry  money — 
What  the  devil  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon 

"  I  said  that  you  would  marry  well.  Was  that 
funny?  I  also  said,  once — and  I  repeat  it  now,  that  I 
have  my  own  plans  for  one  or  two  girls — Strelsa  Leeds 
included.  I  merely  asked  you  to  respect  my  wishes  in 
that  single  matter;  and  bang!  you  go  off  and  blow 
up  and  maroon  yourself  and  sulk  until  nobody  knows 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  Don't  be  a  fool.  Every 
body  likes  you ;  every  girl  can't  love  you — but  I'll  bet 
many  of  'em  do.  .  .  .  Pick  one  out  and  come  to  me — if 
that's  your  trouble.  Go  ahead  and  pick  out  what  you 
fancy ;  and  ten  to  one  it  will  be  all  right,  and  between 
you  and  me  we'll  land  the  little  lady !  " 

"  You're  tremendously  kind " 

"  I  know  I  am.  I'm  always  doing  kindnesses — and 
nobody  likes  me,  and  they'd  bite  my  head  off,  every  one 
of  'em — if  they  weren't  afraid  it  would  disagree  with 
them,"  she  added  grimly. 

Quarren  rose  and  came  over  to  the  bedside. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Sprowl,"  he  said.  "  And — I  like 
you — somehow — I  really  do." 

"  The  devil  you  do,"  said  the  old  lady. 
157 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It's  a  curious  fact,"  he  insisted,  smiling. 

"  Get  out  with  you,  Ricky !  And  I  want  you  to 
come 

"  No— please." 

"What?" 

"  No." 

"Why?" 

"  I  want  to  see  some  real  people  again.  I've  forgot 
ten  what  they  resemble." 

"  That's  a  damned  insolent  remark !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Not  meant  to  be.  You  are  real  enough,  Heaven 
knows.  But,"  and  his  smile  faded — "  I've  taken  a 
month  off  to  think  it  out.  And,  do  you  know,  thinking 
being  an  unaccustomed  luxury,  I've  enjoyed  it.  Imagine 
my  delight  and  surprise,  Mrs.  Sprowl,  when  I  discovered 
that  my  leisurely  reflections  resulted  in  the  discovery 
that  I  had  a  mind — a  real  one — capable  of  reason  and 
conclusions.  And  so  when  I  actually  came  to  a  conclu 
sion  my  joy  knew  no  bounds " 

"  Ricky  !  Stop  those  mental  athletics  !  Do  you 
hear?  I've  a  toothache  and  a  backache  and  I  can't 
stand  'em !  " 

Quarren  was  laughing  now ;  and  presently  a  grim 
concession  to  humour  relaxed  the  old  lady's  lips  till  her 
fat  face  creased. 

"  All  right,"  she  said ;  "  go  and  play  with  the  rag 
ged  boy  around  the  corner,  my  son.  Then  when  you're 
ready  come  home  and  get  your  face  washed." 

"  May  I  come  occasionally  to  chat  with  you?  " 

"  As  though  you'd  do  that  if  you  didn't  have  to ! " 
she  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"  I  think  you  know  better." 

"  No,  I  don't !  "  she  snapped.  "  I  know  men  and 
158 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

women ;  that's  all  I  know.  And  as  you're  one  of  the  two 
species  I  don't  expect  anything  celestial  from  you. 
-  .  .  And  you'd  better  go,  now." 

She  turned  over  on  her  pillow  with  a  grunt :  Quar- 
ren  laughed,  lifted  one  of  her  pudgy  and  heavily  ringed 
hands  from  the  coverlet,  and,  still  smiling,  touched  the 
largest  diamond  with  his  lips. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  one  of  the  very 
few  I  really  like  in  your  funny  unreal  world.  .  .  . 
You're  so  humanly  bad." 

"  What ! "  she  shouted,  floundering  to  a  sitting 
posture. 

But,  looking  back  at  her  from  the  door,  he  found  her 
grinning. 


CHAPTER    VII 

PREMONITIONS  of  spring  started  the  annual  social 
exodus ;  because  in  the  streets  of  Ascalon  and  in  the 
busy  ways  of  Gath  spring  becomes  summer  over  night 
and  all  Philistia  is  smitten  by  the  sun. 

And  all  the  meanness  and  shabbiness  and  effront 
ery  of  the  monstrous  city,  all  its  civic  pretence  and  tar 
nished  ostentation  are  suddenly  revealed  when  the  sum 
mer  sun  blazes  over  Ascalon.  Wherefore  the  daintier 
among  the  Philistines  flee — idler,  courtier,  dangler  and 
squire  of  dames — not  to  return  until  the  first  snow- 
flakes  fall  and  the  gray  veil  of  November  descends  once 
more  over  the  sorry  sham  of  Ascalon. 

Out  of  the  inner  temple,  his  ears  still  ringing  with 
the  noise  of  the  drones,  Quarren  had  gone  forth.  And 
already,  far  away  in  the  outer  sunshine,  he  could  see  real 
people  at  work  and  at  play,  millions  and  millions  of 
them — and  a  real  sky  overhead  edging  far  horizons. 

He  began  real  life  once  more  in  a  bad  way,  finan 
cially ;  his  money  being  hopelessly  locked  up  in  Tap- 
pan-Zee  Park,  a  wooded  and  worthless  tract  of  unim 
proved  land  along  the  Hudson  which  Quarren  had  sup 
posed  Lester  Caldera  was  to  finance  for  him. 

Recently,  however,  that  suave  young  man  had  smil 
ingly  denied  making  any  such  promise  to  anybody; 
which  surprised  and  disconcerted  Quarren  who  had  no 
money  with  which  to  build  sewers,  roads,  and  electric 

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THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

plants.  And  he  began  to  realise  how  carelessly  he  had 
drifted  into  the  enterprise — how  carelessly  he  had 
drifted  into  everything  and  past  everything  for  the  last 
five  years. 

After  a  hunt  for  a  capitalist  among  and  outside  his 
circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances  he  began  to  appre 
ciate  his  own  lunacy  even  more  thoroughly. 

Then  Lester  Caldera,  good-naturedly,  offered  to 
take  the  property  off  his  hands  for  less  than  a  third  of 
what  he  paid  Sprowl  for  it;  and  as  Quarren's  adjoining 
options  were  rapidly  expiring  he  was  forced  to  accept. 
Which  put  the  boy  almost  entirely  out  of  business  ;  so  he 
closed  his  handsome  office  downtown  and  opened  an 
other  in  the  front  parlour  of  an  old  and  rather  dingy 
brown-stone  house  on  the  east  side  of  Lexington  Avenue 
near  Fiftieth  Street  and  hung  out  his  sign  once  more 
over  the  busy  streets  of  Ascalon. 


RICHARD    STANLEY    QUARREX 
Real  Estate 


Also  he  gave  up  his  quarters  at  the  Irish  Legation 
to  the  unfeigned  grief  of  the  diplomats  domiciled  there, 
and  established  himself  in  the  back  parlour  and  exten 
sion  of  the  Lexington  Avenue  house,  ready  at  all  mo 
ments  now  for  business  or  for  sleep.  Neither  bothered 
him  excessively. 

He  wrote  no  more  notes  to  Strelsa  Leeds — that  is, 
he  posted  no  more,  however  many  he  may  have  com 
posed.  Rumours  from  the  inner  temple  concerning 
her  and  Langly  Sprowl  and  Sir  Charles  Mallison 
drifted  out  into  the  real  world  every  day  or  so.  But  he 

161 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

never  went  back  to  the  temple  to  verify  them.  That 
life  was  ended  for  him.  Sometimes,  sitting  alone  at  his 
desk,  he  fancied  that  he  could  almost  hear  the  far  laugh 
ter  of  the  temple  revels,  and  the  humming  of  the  drones. 
But  the  roar  of  the  street-car,  rushing,  grinding 
through  the  steel-ribbed  streets  of  Ascalon  always 
drowned  it,  and  its  far  seen  phantom  glitter  became  a 
burning  reality  where  the  mid-day  sun  struck  the  office 
sign  outside  his  open  window. 

Fate,  the  ugly  jade,  was  making  faces  at  him,  all 
kinds  of  faces.  Just  now  she  wore  the  gaunt  mask  of 
poverty,  but  Quarren  continued  to  ignore  her,  because 
to  him,  there  was  no  real  menace  in  her  skinny  grin,  no 
real  tragedy  in  what  she  threatened. 

Real  tragedy  lay  in  something  very  different — per 
haps  in  manhood  awaking  from  ignoble  lethargy  to 
learn  its  own  degeneracy  in  a  young  girl's  scornful 
eyes. 

All  day  long  he  sat  in  his  office  attending  to  the 
trivial  business  that  came  into  it — not  enough  so  far  to 
give  him  a  living. 

In  the  still  spring  evenings  he  retired  to  his  quar 
ters  in  the  back  parlour,  bathed,  dressed,  looking  out 
at  the  cats  on  the  back  fences.  Then  he  went  forth  to 
dine  either  at  the  Legation  or  with  some  one  of  the  few 
friends  he  had  cared  to  retain  in  that  magic-lantern 
world  wrhich  he  at  last  had  found  uninhabitable — a 
world  in  which  few  virile  men  remain  very  long — fewer 
and  fewer  as  the  years  pass  on.  For  the  gilding  on  the 
temple  dome  is  peeling  off;  and  the  laughter  is  dying 
out,  and  the  hum  of  the  drones  sounds  drowsy  like  un 
real  voices  heard  in  summer  dreams. 

"  It  is  the  passing  of  an  imbecile  society,"  declaimed 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Westguard — "  the  dying  sounds  of  its  meaningless 
noise — the  first  omens  of  a  silence  which  foretells  anni 
hilation.  Out  of  chaos  will  gradually  emerge  the  ele 
ments  of  a  real  society — the  splendid  social  and  intel 
lectual  brotherhood  of  the  future — 

"  See  my  forthcoming  novel,"  added  Lacy,  "  $1.35 
net,  for  sale  at  all  booksellers  or  sent  post-paid  on  re 
ceipt  of " 

"  You  little  fashionable  fop !  "  growled  Westguard 
— "  there's  a  winter  coming  for  all  butterflies !  " 

"  I've  seen  'em  dancing  over  the  snow  on  a  mild  and 
sunny  day,"  retorted  Lacy.  "  Karl,  my  son,  the  nobly 
despairing  writer  with  a  grouch  never  yet  convinced 
anybody." 

"  I  don't  despair,"  retorted  Westguard.  "  This 
country  is  getting  what  it  wants  and  what  it  deserves, 
ladled  out  to  it  in  unappetising  gobs.  Year  after  year 
great  incoming  waves  of  ignorance  sweep  us  from  ocean 
to  ocean ;  but  I  don't  forget  that  those  very  waves  also 
carry  a  constantly  growing  and  enlightened  class  higher 
and  higher  toward  permanent  solidity. 

"  Every  annual  wave  pushes  the  flotsam  of  the  year 
before  toward  the  solid  land.  The  acquaintance  with 
sordid  things  is  the  first  real  impulse  toward  education. 
Some  day  there  will  be  no  squalor  in  the  land — neither 
the  physical  conditions  in  our  slums  nor  the  arid  intel 
lectual  deserts  within  the  social  frontiers." 

"  But  the  waves  will  accomplish  that — not  your  very 
worthy  novels,"  said  Lacy,  impudently. 

"  If  you  call  me  '  worthy  '  I'll  bat  you  on  the  head," 
roared  Westguard,  sitting  up  on  the  sofa  where  he  had 
been  sprawling ;  and  laughter,  loud  and  long,  rattled  the 
windows  in  the  Irish  Legation. 

163 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 


The  May  night  was  hot;  a  sickly  breeze  stirred  the 
curtains  at  the  open  windows  of  Westguard's  living 
room  where  the  Legation  was  entertaining  informally. 

Quarren,  Lacy,  O'Hara,  and  Sir  Charles  Mallison 
sat  by  the  window  playing  poker;  the  Earl  of  Dank- 
mere,  perched  on  the  piano-stool,  was  mournfully  rat 
tling  off  a  string  of  melodies  acquired  along  Broadway ; 
Westguard  himself,  flat  on  his  back,  occupied  a  leather 
lounge  and  dispensed  philosophy  when  permitted. 

"  You  know,"  said  Lacy,  dealing  rapidly,  "  you're 
only  a  tin-horn  philosopher,  Karl,  but  you  really  could 
write  a  good  story  if  you  tried.  Get  your  people  into 
action.  That's  the  game." 

O'Hara  nodded.  "  Interestiii'  people,  in  books 
and  outside,  are  always  doin'  things,  not  talkin',"  he 
said — "  like  Sir  Charles  quietly  drawin'  four  cards  to 
a  kicker  and  sayin'  nothin'." 

" — Like  old  Dankmere,  yonder,  playing  '  Madame 
Sherry  '  and  not  trying  to  tell  us  why  human  beings  en 
joy  certain  sounds  known  as  harmonies,  but  just  keep 
ing  busy  beating  the  box 

" — Like  a  pretty  woman  who  is  contented  to  be  as 
attractive  and  cunnin'  as  she  can  be,  and  not  stoppin' 
to  explain  the  anatomy  of  romantic  love  and  personal 
beauty,"  added  O'Hara. 

"—Like " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  give  me  a  stack  of  chips  and 
shut  up!  "  shouted  Westguard,  jumping  to  his  feet  and 
striding  to  the  table.  "  Everybody  on  earth  is  compe 
tent  to  write  a  book  except  an  author,  but  I  defy  any 
body  to  play  my  poker  hands  for  me !  Come  on,  Dank- 
mere  !  Let's  clean  out  this  complacent  crowd !  " 

Lord  Dankmere  complied,  and  seated  himself  at  the 
164 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

table,  anxiously  remarking  to  Quarren  that  he  had  come 
to  America  to  acquire  capital,  not  to  spend  it.  Sir 
Charles  laughed  and  dealt;  Westguard  drew  five  cards, 
attempted  to  bluff  Quarren's  full  hand,  and  was  scan 
dalously  routed. 

Again  the  cards  were  dealt  and  O'Hara  bet  the  limit ; 
and  the  Earl  of  Dankmere  came  back  with  an  agonised 
burst  of  chips  that  scared  out  Lacy  and  Sir  Charles 
and  left  Quarren  thinking. 

When  finally  the  dust  of  combat  blew  clear  of  the 
scene  Dankmere's  stacks  were  nearly  gone,  and  Quar 
ren's  had  become  symmetrical  sky-scrapers. 

Lacy  said  to  Dankmere :  "  Now  that  you've  learned 
how  to  get  poor  quickly  you're  better  prepared  for  the 
study  of  riches  and  how  to  acquire  'em.  Kindly  pass 
the  buck  unless  your  misfortunes  have  paralysed  you." 

"  The  whole  country,"  said  his  lordship,  "  is  noth 
ing  but  one  gigantic  poker  game.  I  sail  on  the  next 
steamer.  I'm  bluffed  out." 

"  Poor  old  Dankmere,"  purred  Lacy,  "  won't  the 
ladies  love  you  ?  " 

"  Their  demonstrations,"  said  the  Earl,  "  are  not 
keeping  me  awake  nights." 

"  Something  keeps  Quarren  awake  nights,  judging 
by  his  transom  light.  Is  it  love,  Ricky  ?  " 

A  slight  colour  mounted  to  Quarren's  thin  cheeks, 
but  he  answered  carelessly :  "  I  read  late  sometimes. 
...  How  many  cards  do  you  want?  " 

Sir  Charles  Mallison  turned  his  head  after  a  moment 
and  looked  at  Quarren ;  and  meeting  his  eye,  said 
pleasantly :  "  I  only  want  one  card,  Quarren.  Please 
give  me  the  right  one." 

"Which?" 

165 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  The  Queen  of  Hearts." 

"  Dealer  draws  one  also,"  said  the  young  fellow. 

Sir  Charles  laid  down  his  hand  with  a  smile: 

"  Did  you  fill?  "  he  asked  Quarren  as  everybody  else 
remained  out. 

"  I  don't  mind  showing,"  said  Quarren  sorting  out 
his  cards,  faces  up. 

"  Which  end?  "  inquired  O'Hara. 

"  An  interior."  And  he  touched  the  Queen  of 
Hearts,  carelessly. 

"  Crazy  playing  and  lunatic's  luck,"  commented 
Lacy.  "  Dankmere,  and  you,  too,  Sir  Charles,  you'd 
better  cut  and  run  for  home  as  fast  as  your  little  legs 
can  toddle.  Quarren  is  on  the  loose." 

Sir  Charles  laughed,  glanced  at  Quarren,  then  turned 
to  Dankmere. 

"  It's  none  of  my  business,"  he  said,  "  but  if  you 
really  are  in  the  devilish  financial  straits  you  pretend  to 
be,  why  don't  you  square  up  things  and  go  into  trade?  " 

"Square  things?"  repeated  the  little  Earl  mourn 
fully;  "will  somebody  tell  me  how?  Haven't  I  been 
trying  out  everything?  Didn't  I  back  a  musical  com 
edy  of  sorts?  Didn't  I  even  do  a  turn  in  it  myself?  " 

"  That's  what  probably  smashed  it,"  observed 
O'Hara. 

"  He  did  it  very  well,"  laughed  Sir  Charles. 

"  Dankmere  ought  to  have  filled  his  show  full  of 
flossy  flappers,"  insisted  Lacy.  "  Who  wants  to  see  an 
Earl  dance  and  sing?  Next  time  I'll  manage  the  com 
pany  for  you,  Dankmere — 

"  There'll  be  no  next  time,"  said  Dankmere,  scan 
ning  his  cards.  "  I'm  done  for,"  he  added,  dramatically, 
letting  his  own  ante  go. 

166 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  You've  lost  your  nerve,"  said  Quarren,  smiling. 

"  And  everything  else,  my  boy !  " 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  heiresses,  anyway?" 
inquired  O'Hara  sympathetically. 

"  The  matter  is  that  I  don't  want  the  sort  that  want 
me.  Somebody's  ruined  the  business  in  the  States.  I 
suppose  I  might  possibly  induce  a  Broadway  show- 
girl- 

The  little  Earl  got  up  and  began  to  wander  around, 
hands  in  his  pockets,  repeating: 

"  I'd  make  a  pretty  good  actor,  in  spite  of  what 
O'Hara  said.  It's  the  only  thing  I  like  anyway.  I  can 
improvise  songs,  too.  Listen  to  this  impromptu,  you 
fellows  " : 

And  he  bent  over  the  piano,  still  standing,  and  beat 
out  a  jingling  accompaniment: 

"  I  sigh  for  the  maiden  I  never  have  seen, 
I'll  make  her  my  countess  whatever  she's  been — 
Typewriter,  manicure,  heiress  or  queen, 
Aged  fifty  or  thirty  or  lovely  eighteen, 
Redundant  and  squatty,  or  scraggy  and  lean, 
Generous  spendthrift  or  miserly  mean — 
I  sigh  for  the  maiden  I  never  have  seen 
Provided  she's  padded  with  wads  of  Long  Green  !  " 

Still  singing  the  air  he  picked  up  a  silk  hat  and 
walking-stick  and  began  to  dance,  rather  lightly  and 
gracefully,  his  sunken,  heavy-lidded  eyes  fixed  noncha 
lantly  on  space — his  nimble  little  feet  making  no  sound 
on  the  floor  as  he  swung,  swayed,  and  capered  under  the 
electric  light  timing  his  agile  steps  to  his  own  singing. 

Loud  applause  greeted  him;  much  hand-clapping 
167 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  cries  of  "  Good  old  Dankmcre !  Three  cheers  for 
the  British  peerage !  " 

Sir  Charles  looked  slightly  bored,  sitting  back  in 
his  chair  and  waiting  for  the  game  to  recommence. 
Which  it  did  with  the  return  of  the  Earl  who  had  now 
relieved  both  his  intellect  and  his  legs  of  an  accumulated 
and  Terpischorean  incubus. 

"  If  I  was  a  bigger  ass  than  I  am,"  said  the  Earl, 
"  I'd  go  into  vaudeville  and  let  my  creditors  howl." 

"  Did  they  really  send  you  over  here?  "  asked 
O'Hara,  knowing  that  his  lordship  made  no  bones 
about  it. 

"  They  certainly  did.  And  a  fine  mess  I've  made  of 
it,  haven't  I?  No  decent  girl  wants  me — though  why, 
I  don't  know,  because  I'm  decent  enough  as  men  go. 
But  your  newspapers  make  fun  of  me  and  my  title — 
and  I  might  as  well  cut  away  to  Dankmere  Tarns  and 
let  'em  pick  my  carcass  clean." 

"  What's  Dankmere  Tarns?  "  asked  O'Hara. 

"  Mine,  except  the  mortgages  on  it." 

"Entailed?" 

"  Naturally." 

"Kept  up?" 

"  No,  shut  up." 

"  What  sort  of  a  gallery  is  that  of  yours  at  Dank- 
mere  Tarns  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Charles,  turning  around. 

"  How  the  devil  do  I  know,"  replied  his  lordship 
fretfully.  "  I  don't  know  anything  about  pictures." 

"  Are  there  not  some  very  valuable  ones  there  ?  " 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  very  dirty  ones." 

"  Don't  you  know  their  value?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  But  I  fancy  the  good  ones  were  sold 
off  long  ago — twenty  years  ago  I  believe.  There  was 

168 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

a  sale — a  lot  of  rubbish  of  sorts.  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  Lister's  people  cleaned  out  everything  worth  tak 
ing." 

"  When  you  go  back,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "  inspect 
that  rubbish  again.  Perhaps  Lister's  people  overlooked 
enough  to  get  you  out  of  your  financial  difficulties. 
Pictures  that  sold  for  £100  twenty  years  ago  might 
bring  £1,000  to-day.  It's  merely  a  suggestion,  Dank- 
mere — if  you'll  pardon  it." 

"  And  a  good  one,"  added  O'Hara.  "  I  know  a  lot 
of  interestin'  people  and  they  tell  me  that  you  can  sell 
any  rotten  old  picture  over  here  for  any  amount  of 
money.  Sting  'em,  Dankmere.  Get  to  'em !  " 

"  You  might  send  for  some  of  your  pictures,"  said 
Lacy,  "  and  have  a  shot  at  the  auction-mad  amateur. 
He's  too  easy." 

"  And  pay  duty  and  storage  and  gallery  hire  and 
auction  fees ! — no,  thanks,"  replied  the  little  Earl,  cau 
tiously.  "  I've  burnt  my  bally  fingers  too  often  in 
schemes." 

"  I've  a  back  room  behind  my  office,"  said  Quarren. 
"  You  can  store  them  there  if  you  like,  without  charge." 

"  Besides,  if  they're  genuine,  there  will  be  no  duty 
to  pay,"  explained  Sir  Charles. 

Dankmere  sucked  on  his  cigar  but  made  no  com 
ment  ;  and  the  game  went  on,  disastrously  for  him. 

Quarren  said  casually  to  Sir  Charles : 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  off  to  Newport,  soon." 

"  To-morrow.     When  do  you  leave  town  ?  " 

"  I  expect  to  remain  in  town  nearly  all  summer." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  hard?  " 

"  No ;  it  doesn't  matter  much,"  said  the  boy  indiffer 
ently. 

169 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Many  people  are  already  on  the  wing,"  observed 
Lacy. 

"  The  Calderas  have  gone,  I  hear,  and  the  Vernons 
and  Mrs.  Sprowl,"  added  O'Hara. 

"  I  suppose  the  Wycherlys  will  open  Witch-Hollow 
in  June,"  said  Quarren  carelessly. 

"  Yes.     Are  you  asked?  " 

"  No." 

"  Doubtless  you  will  be,"  said  Sir  Charles.  "  Jim 
Wycherly  is  mad  about  aviation  and  several  men  are 
going  to  send  their  biplanes  up  and  try  'em  out." 

"  I'm  goin',"  announced  O'Hara. 

Quarren  drew  one  card,  and  filled  his  house.  Sir 
Charles  laid  aside  his  useless  hand  writh  a  smile  and 
turned  to  Quarren : 

"  Mrs.  Leeds  has  spoken  so  often  and  so  pleasantly 
of  you  that  I  have  been  rather  hoping  I  might  some  day 
have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  you  better.  I  am  very 
glad  that  the  Legation  asked  me  to-night." 

Quarren  remained  absolutely  still  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  said: 

"  Mrs.  Leeds  is  very  generous  in  her  estimate  of  me." 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  rare  qualities." 

"  Of  unusual  qualities  and  rare  charm,"  said  Quar 
ren  coolly.  ..."  I  think,  Karl,  that  I'll  make  it  ten 
more  to  draw  cards.  Are  you  all  staying  in?  " 

Before  the  party  broke  up — and  it  was  an  early  one 
— Lord  Dankmere  turned  to  Quarren. 

"  I'll  drop  in  at  your  office,  if  I  may,  some  morn 
ing,"  he  said.  "May  I?" 

"  It  will  give  me  both  pleasure  and  diversion,"  said 
Quarren  laughing.  "  There  is  not  enough  business  in 

170 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

my  office  to  afford  me  either.  Also  you  are  welcome  to 
send  for  those  pictures  and  store  them  in  my  back  par 
lour  until  you  can  find  a  purchaser." 

"  It's  an  idea,  isn't  it?  "  mused  his  lordship.  "  Now 
I  don't  suppose  you  happen  to  know  anything  about 
such  rubbish,  do  you? — pictures  and  that  sort. 
What?" 

"  Why — yes — I  do,  in  a  way." 

"  The  devil  you  do !  But  then  I've  always  been  told 
that  you  know  something  about  everything — 

"  Very,  very  little,"  said  Quarren,  laughing.  "  In 
an  ignorant  world  smatterings  are  reverenced.  But  the 
fashionable  Philistine  of  yesterday,  who  used  to  boast 
of  his  ignorance  regarding  things  artistic  and  intel 
lectual,  is  becoming  a  little  ashamed  of  his  igno 
rance — 

Dankmere,  reddening,  said  bluntly  : 

"  That  applies  to  me;  doesn't  it?  " 

"  I    beg    your    pardon ! — I    didn't    mean    it    that 


way— 

"  You're  right,  anyway.  I'm  damnably  ignorant. 
.  .  .  See  here,  Quarren,  if  I  send  over  for  some  of  those 
pictures  of  mine,  will  you  give  me  your  opinion  like  a 
good  fellow  before  I  make  a  bally  ass  of  myself  by 
offering  probable  trash  to  educated  people  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know  about  your  pictures,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean,"  said  Quarren,  much  amused. 

They  shook  hands  as  Sir  Charles  came  up  to  make 
his  adieux. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Quarren.  "  I'm  off  to  New 
port  to-morrow.  And — I — I  promised  to  ask  you  to 
come  with  me." 

"Where?" 

171 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Mrs.  Sprowl  told  me  to  bring  you.  You  know 
how  informal  she  is." 

Quarren,  surprised,  glanced  sharply  at  Sir  Charles. 
"  I  don't  believe  she  really  wants  me,"  he  said. 

"  If  she  didn't  she  wouldn't  have  made  me  promise 
to  bring  you.  She's  that  sort,  you  know.  Won't  you 
come?  I  am  sure  that  Mrs.  Leeds,  also,  would  be  glad 
to  see  you." 

Quarren  looked  him  coolly  and  unpleasantly  in  the 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that?  "  he  asked,  almost  in 
solently. 

Sir  Charles  reddened: 

"  She  asked  me  to  say  so  to  you.  I  heard  from  her 
this  morning;  and  I  have  fulfilled  her  request." 

"  Thank  her  for  me,"  returned  Quarren,  level-eyed 
and  very  wrhite. 

"  Which  means  ?  "  insisted  Sir  Charles  quietly. 

"  Absolutely  nothing,"  said  Quarren  in  a  voice  which 
makes  enemies. 

The  following  day  Sir  Charles  left  for  Newport 
where  Mrs.  Sprowl  had  opened  "  Skyland,"  her  villa  of 
pink  Tennessee  marble,  to  a  lively  party  of  young 
people  of  which  Strelsa  Leeds  made  one.  And  once 
more,  according  to  the  newspapers,  her  engagement  to 
Sir  Charles  was  expected  to  be  announced  at  any  mo 
ment. 

When  Quarren  picked  up  the  newspapers  from  his 
office  desk  next  morning  he  found  the  whole  story  there 
— a  story  to  which  he  had  become  accustomed. 

But  the  next  day,  the  papers  repeated  the  news. 
And  it  remained,  for  the  first  time,  uncontradicted  by 

172 


"Once  more,  according  to  the  newspapers,  her  engagement  to  Sir 
Charles  was  expected  to  be  announced." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

anybody.  All  that  morning  he  sat  at  his  desk  staring 
at  her  picture,  reproduced  in  half-tones  on  the  first  page 
of  every  newspaper  in  town — stared  at  it,  and  at  the 
neighbouring  likeness  of  Sir  Charles  in  the  uniform  of 
his  late  regiment;  read  once  more  of  Strelsa's  first  mar 
riage  with  all  its  sequence  of  misery  and  degradation ; 
read  fulsome  columns  celebrating  her  beauty,  her  popu 
larity,  her  expected  engagement  to  one  of  the  wealthiest 
Englishmen  in  the  world. 

He  read,  also,  all  about  Sir  Charles  Mallison, 
V.C. — the  long  record  of  his  military  service,  his 
wealth  and  the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  life.  He  read 
about  his  immense  popularity  in  England,  his  vast 
but  unostentatious  charities,  his  political  and  social 
status. 

To  Quarren  it  all  meant  nothing  more  definite  than 
a  stupid  sequence  of  printed  words ;  and  he  dropped 
his  blond  head  into  both  hands  and  gazed  out  into  the 
sunshine.  And  presently  he  remembered  the  golden 
dancer  laughing  at  him  from  under  her  dainty  mask — 
years  and  years  ago :  and  then  he  thought  of  the  woman 
whose  smooth  young  hands  once  seemed  to  melt  so 
sweetly  against  his — thought  of  her  gray  eyes  tinged 
with  violet,  and  her  hair  and  mouth  and  throat — and 
her  cheek  faintly  fragrant  against  his — a  moment's 
miracle — and  then,  the  end- 
He  made  a  quick,  aimless  movement  as  though  im 
patiently  escaping  sudden  pain ;  cleared  his  sun-dazzled 
eyes  and  began,  half  blindly,  to  turn  over  his  morning's 
letters — circulars,  bills,  business  matters — and  suddenly 
came  upon  a  letter  from  her. 

For  a  while  he  merely  gazed  at  it,  incredulous  of  its 
reality. 

173 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Then  he  opened  the  envelope  very  deliberately  and 
still,  scarcely  convinced,  unfolded  the  scented  sheaf  of 
note-paper : 

"  DEAR  MR.   QUARREN, 

"  At  Mrs.  Sprowl's  suggestion  I  wrote  to  Sir 
Charles  asking  him  to  be  kind  enough  to  bring  you  with 
him  when  he  came  to  '  Skyland.' 

"  Somehow,  I  am  afraid  that  my  informality  may 
have  offended  you ;  and  if  this  is  so,  I  am  sorry.  We 
have  been  such  good  friends  that  I  supposed  I  might 
venture  to  send  you  such  a  message. 

"  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  written  it  to  you  in 
stead — I  don't  know.  Lately  it  seems  as  though  many 
things  that  I  have  done  have  been  entirely  misunder 
stood. 

"  It's  gray  weather  here,  and  the  sea  looks  as  though 
it  were  bad-tempered ;  and  I've  been  rather  discontented, 
too,  this  morning 

"  I  don't  really  mean  that.  There  is  a  very  jolly 
party  here.  ...  I  believe  that  I'm  growing  a  little  tired 
of  parties. 

"  Molly  has  asked  me  to  Witch-Hollow  for  a  quiet 
week  in  June,  and  I'm  going.  She  would  ask  you  if  I 
suggested  it.  Shall  I?  Because,  since  we  last  met, 
once  or  twice  the  thought  has  occurred  to  me  that  per 
haps  an  explanation  was  overdue.  Not  that  I  should 
make  any  to  you  if  you  and  I  meet  at  Witch-Hollow. 
There  isn't  any  to  make — except  by  my  saying  that  I 
hope  to  see  you  again.  Will  you  be  content  with  that 
admission  of  guilt? 

"  I  meant  to  speak  to  you  again  that  day  at  the 
Charity  affair,  only  there  were  so  many  people  bother- 

174 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

ing — and  you  seemed  to  be  so  delightfully  preoccupied 
with  that  pretty  Cyrille  Caldera.  I  really  had  no  decent 
opportunity  to  speak  to  you  again  without  making  her 
my  mortal  enemy — and  you,  too,  perhaps. 

"  May  I  dare  to  be  a  little  friendly  now  and  say  that 
I  would  like  to  see  you?  Somehow  I  feel  that  even  still 
I  may  venture  to  talk  to  you  on  a  different  plane  and 
footing  from  any  which  exists  between  other  men  and 
me.  You  were  once  so  friendly,  so  kind,  so  nice  to  me. 
You  have  been  nice — always.  And  if  I  seem  to  have  ac 
quired  any  of  the  hardness,  any  of  the  cynical  veneer, 
any  of  the  fashionable  scepticism  and  unbelief  which, 
perhaps,  no  woman  entirely  escapes  in  my  environment, 
it  all  softens  and  relaxes  and  fades  and  seems  to  slip 
away  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  talk  to  you — even  on  this 
note-paper.  Which  is  .only  one  way  of  saying,  '  Please 
be  my  friend  again ! ' 

"  I  sometimes  hear  about  you  from  others.  I  am 
impressively  informed  that  you  have  given  up  all  frivo 
lous  social  activity  and  are  now  most  industriously  de 
voting  yourself  to  your  real-estate  business.  And  I  am 
wondering  whether  this  rather  bewildering  volte-face  is 
to  be  permanent. 

"  Because  I  see  no  reason  for  anybody  going  to  ex 
tremes.  Between  the  hermit's  cell  and  the  Palace  of 
Delights  there  is  a  quiet  and  happy  country.  Don't 
you  know  that? 

"  Would  you  care  to  write  to  me  and  tell  me  a  little 
about  yourself?  Do  you  think  it  odd  or  capricious  of 
me  to  write  to  you?  And  are  you  perhaps  irritated  be 
cause  of  my  manners  which  must  have  seemed  to  you 
discourteous — perhaps  rude? 

"  I  know  of  course  that  you  called  on  me ;  that  you 
175 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

telephoned ;  that  you  wrote  to  me ;  and  that  I  made  no 
response. 

"  And  I  am  going  to  make  no  explanation.  Can 
your  friendship,  or  what  may  remain  of  it,  stand  the 
strain  ? 

"  If  it  can,  please  write  to  me.  And  forgive  me 
whatever  injustice  I  have  seemed  to  do  you.  I  ask  it 
because,  although  you  may  not  believe  it,  my  regard 
for  you  has  never  become  less  since  the  night  that  a 
Harlequin  and  a  golden  dancer  met  in  the  noisy  halls 
of  old  King  Carnival.  .  .  .  Only,  the  girl  who  writes 
you  this  was  younger  and  happier  then  than  1  think 
she  ever  will  be  again. 

"  Your  friend — if  you  wish — • 

"  STRELSA  LEEDS." 

He  wrote  her  by  return  mail : 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  LEEDS, 

"  When  a  man  has  made  up  his  mind  to  drown  with 
out  any  more  fuss,  it  hurts  him  to  be  hauled  out  and 
resuscitated  and  told  that  he  is  still  alive. 

"  If  you  mean,  ultimately,  to  let  me  drown,  do  it 
now.  I've  been  too  miserable  over  you.  Also,  I  was 
insulting  to  Sir  Charles.  He's  too  decent  to  have  told 
you ;  but  I  was.  And  I  can't  ask  his  pardon  except  by 
mending  my  manner  toward  him  in  future. 

"  I'm  a  nobody ;  I  haven't  any  money ;  and  I  love 
you.  That  is  how  the  matter  stands  this  day  in  May. 
Let  me  know  the  worst  and  I'll  drown  this  time  for  good 
and  all. 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  marry  Sir  Charles  ? 

"  R.  S.  QUARREN." 
176 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

By  return  mail  came  a  note  from  her: 

"  Can  you  not  care  for  me  and  still  be  kind  to  me,, 
Mr.  Quarren?  If  what  you  say  about  your  regard  for 
me  is  true — but  it  is  certainly  exaggerated,  anyway — 
should  not  your  attitude  toward  me  include  a  nobler 
sentiment?  I  mean  friendship.  And  I  know  whereof  I 
speak,  because  I  am  conscious  of  a  capacity  for  it — a 
desire  for  it — and  for  you  as  the  object  of  it.  I  be 
lieve  that,  if  you  cared  for  it,  I  could  give  you  the  very 
best  of  me  in  a  friendship  of  the  highest  type. 

"  It  is  in  me  to  give  it — a  pure,  devoted,  lofty, 
untroubled  friendship,  absolutely  free  of  lesser  and 
material  sentiments.  Am  I  sufficiently  frank?  I  want 
such  a  friendship.  I  need  it.  I  have  never  before  offered 
it  to  any  man — the  kind  I  mean  to  give  you  if  you  wish. 

"  I  believe  it  would  satisfy  you ;  I  am  convinced  that 
yours  would  satisfy  me.  You  don't  know  how  I  have 
missed  such  a  friendship  in  you.  I  have  wanted  it  from 
the  very  beginning  of  our  acquaintance.  But  I  had — 
problems — to  solve,  first ;  and  I  had  to  let  our  friendship- 
lie  dormant.  Now  I  have  solved  my  perplexities,  and  all 
my  leisure  is  for  you  again,  if  you  will.  Do  you 
want  it? 

"  Think  over  what  I  have  written.  Keep  my  letter 
for  a  w^eek  and  then  write  me.  Does  my  offer  not  deserve 
a  week's  consideration? 

"  Meanwhile  please  keep  away  from  deep  water.  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  drown. 

"  STRELSA   LEEDS. 

"  P.  S. — Lord  Dankmere  is  here.  He  is  insufferable. 
He  told  Mrs.  Sprowl  that  you  and  he  were  going  into- 
the  antique-picture  business.  You  wouldn't  think  of 

177 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


going  into  anything  whatever  with  a  man  of  that  sort, 
would  you?     Or  was  it  merely  a  British  jest?  " 

He  wrote  at  once  : 

"  I  have  your  letter  and  will  keep  it  a  week  before 
replying.  But — are  you  engaged?  " 

She  answered : 

''  The  papers  have  had  me  engaged  to  Barent  Van 
Dyne,  to  Langly  Sprowl,  to  Sir  Charles.  You  may  take 
your  choice  if  you  are  determined  to  have  me  engaged 
to  somebody.  No  doubt  you  think  my  being  engaged 
would  make  our  future  friendship  safer.  I'll  attend  to 
it  immediately  if  you  wish  me  to." 

Evidently  she  was  in  a  gay  and  contrary  humour 
when  she  wrote  so  flippantly  to  him.  And  he  replied 
in  kind  and  quite  as  lightly.  Then,  at  the  week's  end 
he  wrote  her  again  that  he  had  considered  her  letter,  and 
that  he  accepted  the  friendship  she  offered,  and  gave 
her  his  in  return. 

She  did  not  reply. 

He  wrote  her  again  a  week  later,  but  had  no  an 
swer.  Another  week  passed,  and,  slowly  into  his  senses 
crept  the  dread  of  deep  waters  closing  around  him.  And 
after  another  week  he  began  to  wonder,  dully,  how  long 
it  would  take  a  man  to  drown  if  he  made  no  struggle. 

Meanwhile  several  dozen  crates  and  packing  cases 
had  arrived  at  the  Custom  House  for  the  Earl  of  Dank- 
mere  ;  and,  in  process  of  time  were  delivered  at  the  real- 
estate  office  of  R.  S.  Quarren,  littering  his  sleeping 
quarters  and  office  and  overflowing  into  the  extension 
and  backyard. 

178 


"All  stacked  up  pell-mell  in  the  back  yard  and  regarded  in  amaze 
ment  by  the  neighbours." 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

It  was  the  first  of  June  and  ordinarily  hot  when 
Lord  Dankmere  and  Quarren,  stripped  to  their  shirts 
and  armed  with  pincers,  chisels  and  hammers,  attacked 
the  packing  cases  in  the  backyard,  observed  from  the 
back  fences  by  several  astonished  cats. 

His  lordship  was  not  expert  at  manual  labour; 
neither  was  Quarren ;  and  some  little  blood  was  shed 
from  the  azure  veins  of  Dankmere  and  the  ruddier  in 
tegument  of  the  younger  man  as  picture  after  picture 
emerged  from  its  crate,  some  heavily  framed,  some 
merely  sagging  on  their  ancient  un-keyed  stretchers. 

There  were  primitives  on  panels,  triptychs,  huge 
canvases  in  frames  carved  out  of  solid  wood ;  pictures 
in  battered  Italian  frames — some  floridly  Florentine, 
some  exquisitely  inlaid  on  dull  azure  and  rose — pictures 
in  Spanish  frames,  Dutch  frames,  English  frames, 
French  frames  of  the  last  century ;  portraits,  land 
scapes,  genre,  still  life — battle  pictures,  religious  sub 
jects,  allegorical  canvases,  mythological — all  stacked 
up  pell-mell  in  the  backyard  and  regarded  in  amaze 
ment  by  the  neighbours,  and  by  two  young  men  who 
alternately  smoked  and  staunched  their  wounds  under 
the  summer  sky. 

"  Dankmere,"  said  Quarren  at  last,  "  did  your  peo 
ple  send  over  your  entire  collection  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  thought  it  might  be  as  well  to  have 
plenty  of  rubbish  on  hand  in  case  a  demand  should 
spring  up.  .  .  .  What  do  they  look  like  to  you,  Quar 
ren — I  mean  what's  your  first  impression  ?  " 

"  They  look  all  right." 

"Really?" 

"  Certainly.  They  seem  to  be  genuine  enough  as  far 
as  I  can  see." 

179 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  But  are  they  otherwise  any  good?  " 

"  I  think  so.  I'll  go  over  each  canvas  very  carefully 
and  give  you  my  opinion  for  what  it's  worth.  But,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  Dankmere,  where  are  we  going  to  put 
all  these  canvases  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  Earl  gloomily,  "  I'll  be 
obliged  to  store  what  you  haven't  room  for.  And  as  I 
gradually  grow  poorer  and  poorer  the  day  will  arrive 
when  I  can't  pay  storage ;  and  they'll  sell  'em  under  my 
nose  at  auction,  Quarren.  And  first  I  know  the  papers 
will  blossom  out  with :  '  A  Wonderful  Rembrandt  dis 
covered  in  a  junk-shop!  Ancient  picture  bought  for 
five  dollars  and  pronounced  a  gem  by  experts !  Lucky 
purchaser  refuses  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  cash !  ' 

Quarren  laughed  and  turned  away  into  the  house; 
and  Dankmere  followed,  gloomily  predicting  his  own 
approaching  financial  annihilation. 

From  his  office  Quarren  telephoned  a  picture  dealer 
to  send  men  with  heavy  wire,  hooks,  ladders  and  other 
paraphernalia ;  then  he  and  Dankmere  made  their  toilets, 
resumed  their  coats,  and  returned  to  the  sunny  office 
to  await  events. 

After  a  few  moments  the  Earl  said  abruptly : 

"  Would  you  care  to  go  into  this  venture  with  me, 
Quarren?" 

"  I  ?  "  said  Quarren,  surprised. 

"Yes.     Will  you?" 

"  Why,  I  have  my  own  business,  Dankmere " 

"  Is  it  enough  to  keep  you  busy?  " 

"  No— not  yet— but  I-  — " 

"  Then,  like  a  good  fellowr,  help  me  sell  these  damned 
pictures.  I  haven't  any  money  to  offer  you,  Quarren, 
but  if  you'll  be  wrilling  to  hang  the  pictures  around  your 

180 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

office  here  and  in  the  back  parlour  and  the  extension, 
and  if  you'll  talk  the  merry  talk  to  the  lunatics  who 
may  come  in  to  look  at  'em  and  tell  'em  what  the  bally 
pictures  are  and  fix  the  proper  prices — why — why,  I'll 
make  any  arrangement  with  you  that  you  please.  Say 
a  half  interest,  now.  Would  that  be  fair  ?  " 

"  Fair  ?  Of  course  !  It's  far  too  liberal  an  offer — 
but  I " 

"  It's  worth  that  to  me,  Quarren — if  you  can  see 
youi'  way  to  helping  me  out " 

"  But  my  help  isn't  worth  half  what  these  pictures 
might  very  easily  bring — even  at  public  auction " 

"  Why  not  ?  I'd  have  to  pay  an  auctioneer,  an  ex 
pert  to  appraise  them — an  art  dealer  to  hang  them  in 
his  gallery  for  a  couple  of  weeks — either  that  or  rent  a 
place  by  the  year.  The  only  way  I  can  recompense  you 
for  your  wall  space,  for  talking  art  talk  to  visitors,  for 
fixing  prices,  is  to  offer  you  half  of  what  we  make.  Why 
not?  You  pay  a  pretty  stiff  rent  here,  don't  you?  You 
also  pay  a  servant.  You  pay  for  heat  and  light,  don't 
you?  So  if  you'll  turn  this  floor  into  a  combination 
gallery  of  sorts — art  and  real  estate,  you  see — we'll  go 
into  business,  egad!  What?  The  Dankmere  galleries! 
What  ?  By  gad  I'll  have  a  sign  made  to  hang  out  there 
beside  your  shingle — only  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  pay 
for  it,  Quarren,  and  recompense  yourself  after  we  sell 
the  first  picture." 

"  But,  Dankmere,"  he  protested,  very  much  amused, 
"  I  don't  want  to  become  a  picture  dealer." 

"What's  the  harm?  Take  a  shot  at  it,  old  chap! 
A  young  man  can't  collect  too  many  kinds  of  experi 
ence.  Take  me  for  example ! — I've  sold  dogs  and  hunt 
ers  on  commission,  gone  shares  in  about  every  rotten 

181 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

scheme  anybody  ever  suggested  to  me,  financed  a  show, 
and  acted  in  it — as  you  know — and,  by  gad! — here  I 
am  now  a  dealer  in  old  masters !  Be  a  good  fellow  and 
come  in  with  me.  What?  " 

"  I  don't  really  know  enough  about  antique  pictures 
to " 

"  What's  the  odds  !  Neither  do  I !  My  dear  sir,  we 
must  lie  like  gentlemen  for  the  honour  of  the  Dankmere 
gallery!  What?  Along  comes  a  chap  walking  slowly 
and  painfully  for  the  weight  of  the  money  in  his  pock 
ets — '  Ho  ! '  says  he — '  a  genuine  Van  Dyck ! '  '  Cer 
tainly,'  you  say,  very  coldly.  And,  '  How  much?  '  says 
he,  shivering  for  fear  he  mayn't  get  it.  '  Three  hundred 
thousand  dollars,'  you  say,  trying  not  to  yawn  in  his 
face » 

Quarren  could  no  longer  control  his  laughter :  Dank- 
mere  blinked  at  him  amiably. 

"  We'll  hang  them  anyhow,  Dankmere,"  he  said. 
46  As  long  as  there  is  so  little  business  in  the  office  I 
•don't  mind  looking  after  your  pictures  for  you " 

"  Yours,  too,"  urged  the  Earl. 

"  No ;  I  can't  accept  anything ' 

"  Then  it's  all  off !  "  exclaimed  Dankmere,  turning 
.a  bright  red.  "  I'm  blessed  if  I'll  accept  charity ! — even 
if  I  am  hunting  heiresses.  I'll  marry  money  if  I  can, 
but  I'm  damned  if  I  hold  out  a  tin  cup  for  coppers !  " 

"  If  you  feel  that  way,"  began  Quarren,  very  much 
embarrassed,  "  I'll  do  whatever  would  make  you  feel 
•comfortable " 

"  Half  interest  or  it's  all  off !  A  Dankmere  means 
what  he  says — now  and  then." 

"  One-third  interest,  then " 

"  A  half !— by  gad !    There's  a  good  fellow !  " 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  No ;  one-third  is  all  I'll  accept." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  It  may  amount  to  ten  dollars — it 
may  amount  to  ten  thousand — and  ten  times  that,  per 
haps.  What?" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Quarren,  smiling.  "  And,  if  you're 
going  out,  Dankmere,  perhaps  you  had  better  order  a 
sign  painted — anything  you  like,  of  course.  Because 
I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  leave  these  pictures  here  indefi 
nitely  and  we  might  as  well  make  plans  to  get  rid  of 
some  of  them  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Right-o !  I'm  off  to  find  a  painter.  Leave  it  to 
me,  Quarren.  And  when  the  picture-hangers  come,  have 
them  hung  in  a  poor  light — I  mean  the  pictures — God 
knows  they  need  it — the  dimmer  the  light  the  better. 
What?  Take  care  of  yourself,  old  chap.  There's 
money  in  sight,  believe  me !  " 

And  the  lively  little  Earl  trotted  out,  swinging  his 
stick  and  setting  his  straw  hat  at  an  angle  slightly 
rakish. 

No  business  came  to  the  office  that  sunny  afternoon ; 
neither  did  the  picture-hangers.  And  Quarren,  uneasy, 
and  not  caring  to  leave  Dankmere's  ancestral  collection 
of  pictures  in  the  back  yard  all  night  lest  the  cats  and 
a  possible  shower  knock  a  little  superfluous  antiquity 
into  them,  had  just  started  to  go  out  and  hire  somebody 
to  help  him  carry  the  canvases  into  the  basement,  when 
the  office  door  opened  in  his  very  face  and  Molly  Wych- 
erly  came  in,  breezily. 

"  Why,  Molly !  "  he  exclaimed,  surprised ;  "  this  is 
exceedingly  nice  of  you— " 

"  Oh,  Ricky,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  !  But  I  don't  want 
to  buy  a  house  or  sell  one  or  anything.  I'm  very  un 
happy — and  I'm  glad  to  see  you " 

183 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

She  pressed  his  hand  with  both  her  gloved  ones ;  he 
closed  the  door  and  returned  to  the  office ;  and  she  seated 
herself  on  top  of  his  desk. 

"  You  dear  boy,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  thin  and  white 
and  you  don't  look  very  happy  either.  Are  you?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I'm  happy " 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  Anyway,  I  was  passing,  and  I 
saw  your  shingle  swinging,  and  I  made  the  chauffeur 
stop  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  .  .  .  How  are  you, 
Ricky  dear?" 

"  First  rate.  You  are  even  unusually  pretty, 
Molly." 

"  I  don't  feel  so.  Strelsa  and  I  came  into  town  for 
the  afternoon — on  the  most  horrid  kind  of  business, 
Ricky." 

"  I'm  sorry " 

"  You  will  be  sorrier  when  you  hear  that  about  all 
of  Strelsa's  money  was  in  that  miserable  Adamant 
Trust  Company  which  is  causing  so  much  scandal.  You 
didn't  know  Strelsa's  money  was  in  it,  did  you?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  The  child  doesn't  know  whether 
she  wrill  ever  get  a  penny  or  not.  Some  of  those  dis 
gusting  men  have  run  away,  one  shot  himself — you  read 
about  it ! — and  now  they  are  trying  to  pretend  that  the 
two  creatures  they  have  arrested  are  insane  and  irre 
sponsible.  I  don't  care  whether  they  are  or  not ;  I'd  like 
to  kill  them.  How  does  their  insanity  concern  Strelsa? 
For  three  weeks  she  hasn't  known  what  to  think,  what 
to  expect — and  even  her  lawyers  can't  tell  her.  I  hate 
lawyers.  But  7  think  the  chances  are  that  her  pretty 
house  will  be  for  sale  before  long.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  it 

be  too  tragic  if  it  came  into  your  office " 

184 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


"  Don't  say  such  things,  Molly,"  he  said,  bend 
ing  his  head  over  the  desk  and  fumbling  with  his 
pen. 

"  Well,  I  knew  you'd  be  sympathetic.  It's  a  shame 
— a  crime ! — it's  absolutely  disgusting  the  way  that  men 
gamble  with  other  people's  money  and  cheat  and  lie  and 
— and — oh,  it's  a  perfectly  rotten  world  and  I'm  tired 
of  it !  " 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Leeds  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  At  Witch-Hollow — in  town  for  this  afternoon  to 
see  her  stupid  lawyers.  They  don't  do  anything.  They 
say  they  can't  just  yet.  They're  lazy  or — something 
worse.  That's  my  opinion.  We  go  out  on  the  five-three 
train — Strelsa  and  I " 

"  Is  she — much  affected  ?  " 

"  No ;  and  that's  the  silly  part  of  it.  It  would 
simply  wreck  me.  But  she  hasn't  wept  a  single  tear. 
.  .  .  I  suppose  she'll  have  to  marry,  now—  Mrs. 
Wycherly  glanced  askance  at  Quarren,  but  his  face  re 
mained  gravely  expressionless. 

"Ricky  dear?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  had  a  frightful  row,  on  your  account,  with  Mrs. 
Sprowl." 

"I'm  sorry.     Why?" 

"  I  told  her  I  was  going  to  ask  you  and  Strelsa  to 
Witch-Hollow." 

Quarren  said  calmly: 

"  Don't  do  it  then,  Molly.  There's  no  use  of  your 
getting  in  wrong  with  Mrs.  Sprowl." 

Mrs.  Wycherly  laughed: 

"  Oh,  I  found  a  way  around.  I  asked  Mrs.  Sprowl 
and  Sir  Charles  at  the  same  time." 

185 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said,  turning  a  colourless 
face  to  hers. 

"  What  I  say.  Ricky  dear,  I  suppose  that  Strelsa 
will  have  to  marry  a  wealthy  man,  now — and  I  believe 
she  realises  it,  too — but  I — I  wanted  her  to  marry  you, 
some  day " 

He  swung  around  again,  confronting  her. 

"  You  darling !  "  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Mrs.  Wycherly's  lip  trembled  and  she  dabbed  at 
her  eyes. 

"I  wish  I  could  express  my  feelings  like  Mrs.  Sprowl, 
but  I  can't,"  she  said  naively.  "  Sir  Charles  will  marry 
her,  now ;  I  know  perfectly  well  he  will — unless  Langly 
Sprowl " 

Quarren  drew  his  breath  sharply. 

"  Not  that  man,"  she  said. 

"  God  knows,  Ricky.  He's  after  Strelsa  every  min 
ute — and  he  can  make  himself  agreeable.  The  worst  of 
it  is  that  Strelsa  does  not  believe  what  she  hears  about 
him.  Women  are  that  way,  often.  The  moment  the 
whole  world  pitches  into  a  man,  women  are  inclined  to 
believe  him  a  martyr — and  end  by  discrediting  every  un 
worthy  story  concerning  him.  ...  I  don't  know,  but 
I  think  it  is  already  a  little  that  way  with  Strelsa.  .  .  . 
He's  a  clever  brute — and  oh !  what  a  remorseless  man ! 
...  I  said  that  once  to  Strelsa,  and  she  said  very 
warmly  that  I  entirely  misjudged  him.  ...  I  wish 
Mary  Ledwith  would  come  back  and  bring  things  to  a 
crisis — I  do,  indeed." 

Quarren  said,  calmly ; 

"  You  don't  think  Mrs.  Leeds  is  engaged  to  Sprowl, 
do  you  ?  " 

"No.  .  .  .  I  don't  think  so.  Sometimes  I  don't  know 
186 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

what  to  think  of  Strelsa.      I'm  certain  that  she  was  not  en 
gaged  to  him  four  weeks  ago  when  she  was  at  Newport." 

Quarren  gazed  out  into  the  sunlit  street.  It  was 
just  four  weeks  ago  that  her  letters  ceased.  Had  she 
stopped  writing  because  of  worry  over  the  Adamant 
Trust?  Or  was  there  another  reason? 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Molly,  dabbing  at  her  eyes, 
"  that  Strelsa  can't  pick  and  choose  now.  I  suppose 
she's  got  to  marry  for  sordid  and  sensible  and  material 
reasons.  But  if  only  she  would  choose  Sir  Charles — 
I  think  I  could  be  almost  reconciled  to  her  losing 
you " 

Quarren  laughed  harshly. 

"  An  irreparable  loss  to  any  woman,"  he  said.  "  I 
doubt  that  Mrs.  Leeds  survives  losing  me." 

"  Ricky !  She  cares  a  great  deal  for  you !  So  do  I. 
And  Strelsa  does  care  for  you " 

"  Not  too  rashly  I  hope,"  he  said  with  another  dis 
agreeable  laugh. 

"  Oh,  that  isn't  like  you,  Ricky !  You're  not  the 
sneering,  fleering  nasty  kind.  If  you  are  badly  hurt, 
take  it  better  than  that " 

"  I  can't !  "  he  said  between  set  teeth.  "  I  care  for 
her;  she  knows  it.  I  guess  she  knows,  too,  that  what 
she  once  said  to  me  started  me  into  what  I'm  doing  now 
— working,  waiting,  living  like  a  dog — doing  my  best 
to  keep  my  self-respect  and  obtain  hers — ':  He  choked, 
regained  his  self-control,  and  went  on  quietly: 

"Why  do  you  think  I  dropped  out  of  everything? 
To  try  to  develop  whatever  may  be  in  me — so  that  I 
could  speak  to  her  as  an  equal  and  not  as  the  court 
jester  and  favourite  mountebank  of  the  degenerate  gang 

she  travels  with " 

187 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Ricky !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"  I  am  not  offended,  you  poor  boy.  ...  I  hadn't 
realised  that  you  were  so  much  in  love  with  her — so 
deeply  concerned " 

"  I  have  always  been.  .  .  .  She  knows  it.  .  .  ." 
He  cleared  his  eyes  and  turned  a  dazed  gaze  on  the 
sunny  street  once  more. 

"  If  I  could — '•'  he  stopped ;  a  hopeless  look  came 
into  his  eyes.  Then  he  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  Ricky!  Ricky!  Can't  you  do  something? 
Can't  you  make  a  lot  of  money  very  quickly  ?  You  see 
Strelsa  has  simply  got  to  marry  money.  Be  fair;  be 
just  to  her.  A  girl  can't  exist  without  money,  can  she? 
You  know  that,  don't  you?  " 

"  I've  heard  your  world  say  so." 

"  You  know  it's  true  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  true.  I  don't  know  truth 
from  falsehood.  I  suppose  that  love  requires  money  to 
keep  it  nourished — as  roses  require  manure " 

"  Ricky !  " 

"  I'm  speaking  of  your  world— 

"  My  world !  The  entire  world  knows  that  money  is 
necessary — except  perhaps  a  silly  sentimentalist  here 
and  there " 

"  Yes,  there  are  one  or  two — here  and  there,"  he 
said.  "  But  they're  all  poor — and  prejudiced." 

Molly  applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
viciously. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  one,  Ricky.  I'm  sure  I'm  not 
fool  enough  to  expect  a  girl  who  has  been  accustomed  to 
everything  to  be  contented  without  anything." 

"  There's  her  husband  as  an  asset." 
188 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  don't  talk  slush !  " 

" — And — children — perhaps." 

"  And  no  money  to  educate  them !  You  dear  boy, 
there  is  nothing  to  do — absolutely  nothing — unless  it's 
based  on  money.  You  know  it ;  I  know  it.  People  with 
out  it  are  intolerable — a  nuisance  to  everybody  and  to 
themselves.  What  could  Strelsa  find  in  life  without  the 
means  to  enjoy  it?  " 

"  Nothing — perhaps.  .  .  .  But  I  believe  I'll  ask 
her." 

"  She'll  tell  you  the  truth,  Ricky.  She's  an  unusually 
truthful  woman.  ...  I  must  go  downtown.  Strelsa 
and  I  are  lunching  " — she  reddened — "  with  Langly. 
.  .  .  His  aunt  would  kill  me  if  she  heard  of  it.  ...  I 
positively  do  not  dare  ask  Langly  to  Witch-Hollow  be 
cause  I'm  so  deadly  afraid  of  that  fat  old  woman !  .  .  . 
Besides,  I  don't  want  him  there — although — if  Strelsa 
has  to  marry  him " 

She  fell  silent  and  thoughtful,  reflecting,  perhaps, 
that  if  Strelsa  was  going  to  take  Langly  Sprowl,  her 
own  country  house  might  as  well  have  the  benefit  of  any 
fashionable  and  social  glamour  incident  to  the  an 
nouncement. 

Then,  glancing  at  Quarren,  her  heart  smote  her,  and 
she  flushed: 

"  Come  up  to  Witch-Hollow,  Ricky  dear,  and  get 
her  to  elope  with  you  if  you  can !  Will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  come  to  Witch-Hollow  if  you  ask  me." 

"That's  ducky  of  you.  You  are  a  good  sport,  Ricky 
— and  always  were !  Go  on  and  marry  her  if  you  can. 
Other  women  have  stood  it.  ...  And,  I  know  it's  vul 
gar  and  low  and  catty  of  me — but  I'd  love  to  see  Mrs. 
Sprowl  blow  up — and  see  that  hatchet-faced  Langly 

189 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

disappointed — yes,  I  would,  and  I  don't  care  what  you 
think !  Their  ancestors  were  common  people,  and 
Heaven  knows  why  a  Wycherly  of  Wycherly  should  be 
afraid  of  the  descendants  of  Dutch  rum  smugglers !  " 

Quarren  looked  up  with  a  weary  smile. 

"  But  you  are  afraid,"  he  said. 

"  I  am,"  admitted  Molly,  furiously ;  and  marched 
out. 

As  he  put  her  into  her  car  he  said : 

"  Write  me  if  you  don't  change  your  mind  about 
asking  me  to  Witch-Hollow." 

"  No  fear,"  said  the  pretty  little  woman ;  "  and," 
she  added,  "  I  hope  you  make  mischief  and  raise  the 
very  dickens  all  around.  I  sincerely  hope  you  do !  " 

*'  I  hope  so,  too."  he  said  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 


"A  fortnight  later  Strelsa  wrote  to  Quarren  for  the  first  time  in 
nearly  two  months." 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Strelsa  wrote  to  Quarren  for 
the  first  time  in  nearly  two  months. 

"  DEAR  MR.  QUARREN, 

"  Molly  says  that  she  saw  you  in  town  two  weeks 
ago,  and  that  she  told  you  how  unexpectedly  my  worldly 
affairs  have  altered  since  I  last  wrote  to  you. 

"  For  me,  somehow  or  other,  life  has  been  always  a 
sequence  of  abrupt  experiences — a  series  of  extremes — 
one  grotesque  exaggeration  after  another,  and  all  dia 
metrically  opposed.  And  it  seems  odd  that  such 
radically  material  transformations  should  so  ruthlessly 
disturb  and  finally,  now,  end  by  completely  altering  the 
character  of  a  girl  whose  real  nature  is — or  was — un 
accented  and  serene  to  the  verge  of  indifference.  For 
the  woman  writing  this  is  very  different  from  the  one 
you  knew  as  Strelsa  Leeds. 

"  I  am  not  yet  sure  what  the  outcome  of  this  Ada 
mant  affair  will  be.  Neither,  apparently,  are  my  attor 
neys.  But  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  if  I  ever  recover 
anything  at  all,  it  will  not  amount  to  very  much — not 
nearly  enough  to  live  on. 

"  When  they  first  brought  the  unpleasant  news  to  me 
my  instinct  was  to  sit  down  and  write  you  about  it.  I 
was  horribly  scared,  and  wanted  you  to  know  it. 

"  I  didn't  yield  to  the  impulse  as  you  know — I  can- 
191 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

not  give  you  the  reasons  why.  They  were  merely  intui 
tions  at  first ;  later  they  became  reasons  as  my  financial 
situation  developed  in  all  its  annoying  proportions. 

"  I  can  tell  you  only  this :  before  material  disaster 
threatened  me  out  of  a  clear  sky,  supposing  that  mat 
ters  would  always  remain  with  me  as  they  were — that  I 
should  never  know  any  serious  want,  never  apprehend 
actual  necessity — I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  a  course 
of  life  which  now  has  become  impossible. 

"  It  was  not,  perhaps,  a  very  admirable  plan  of  ex 
istence  that  I  had  conceived  for  myself,  nothing  radical 
or  original.  I  meant,  merely,  not  to  marry,  to  live  well 
within  my  income,  to  divide  my  time  between  my  friends 
and  myself — that  is  to  give  myself  more  leisure  for  self- 
development,  tranquil  cultivation,  and  a  wider  and 
more  serious  interest  in  things  worthy. 

"  If  by  dividing  my  time  between  my  friends  and 
myself  I  was  to  lose  touch  more  or  less  with  the  lively 
and  rather  exacting  society  in  which  I  live,  I  had  decided 
on  the  sacrifice. 

"  And  that,  Mr.  Quarren,  is  how  matters  stood  with 
me  until  a  month  ago. 

"  Now  everything  is  altered — even  my  own  charac 
ter  I  think.  There  is  in  me  very  little  courage — and, 
alas,  much  of  that  cowardice  which  shrinks  from  pain 
and  privation  of  any  kind — which  cringes  the  more 
basely,  perhaps,  because  there  has  been,  in  my  life,  so 
much  of  sorrowr,  so  little  of  material  ease  and  tranquil 
lity  of  mind. 

"  I  had  been  dreaming  of  a  balanced  and  secure 
life  with  leisure  to  develop  mental  resources  hitherto 
neglected.  And  your  friendship — our  new  understand 
ing — meant  much  of  that  part  of  life  for  me — more 

192 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

than  I  realised — far  more  than  you  do.  Can  you  un 
derstand  how  deep  the  hurt  is? — deeper  because  now 
you  will  learn  what  a  coward  I  really  am  and  how  self 
ishly  I  surrender  to  the  menace  of  material  destruction. 
I  am  in  dire  terror  of  it ;  I  simply  do  not  choose  to  en 
dure  it.  That  I  need  not  submit  to  it,  inspires  in  me 
the  low  type  of  equanimity  that  enables  me  to  face  the 
future  with  apparent  courage.  My  world  applauds  it 
as  pluck.  I  have  confessed  to  you  what  it  really  is. 

"  Now  you  know  me,  Mr.  Quarren — a  preacher  of 
lofty  ideals  while  prosperous,  a  recreant  in  adversity. 

"  I  thought  once  that  the  most  ignoble  sentiments 
ever  entertained  by  man  were  those  lesser  and  physical 
emotions  which,  in  the  world,  masquerade  as  love — or  as 
an  essential  part  of  it.  To  me  they  always  seemed  intol 
erable  as  any  part  of  love,  material,  unworthy,  base. 
To  me  love  was  intellectual — could  be  nothing  less  lofty 
— and  should  aspire  to  the  spiritual. 

"  I  say  this  because  you  once  tried  to  make  me  un 
derstand  that  you  loved  me. 

"  Marriage  of  two  minds  with  nothing  material  to 
sully  an  ideal  union  was  what  I  had  dreamed  of.  I  might 
have  cared  for  you  that  way  when  a  marriage  tainted 
with  lesser  emotions  repelled  me.  And  now,  like  all 
iconoclasts,  I  end  by  shattering  my  own  complacent 
image,  and  the  fragments  have  fallen  to  the  lowest 
depth  of  all. 

"  For  I  contemplate  a  manage  de  convenance — and 
I  scarcely  care  whom  I  marry  as  long  as  he  removes 
from  me  this  terror  of  a  sordid  and  needy  future. 

"  All  ideals,  all  desire  for  higher  and  better  things — 
for  a  noble  leisure  and  the  quiet  pleasures  of  self-devel 
opment,  have  gone — vanished  utterly.  Fear  sickens 

193 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

me  night  and  day — the  same  dull  dread  that  I  have 
known  so  many,  many  years  in  my  life — a  blind  horror 
of  more  unhappiness  and  pain  after  two  years  of  silence 
—that  breathless  stillness  which  frightened  wounded 
things  know  while  they  lie,  panting,  dazed  listening  for 
the  coming  footsteps  of  that  remorseless  Fate  which 
struck  them  down  from  afar. 

"  I  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Quarren,  because  it  is  due  to 
you  if  you  really  love  me — or  if  you  once  did  love  me — 
because  when  you  have  read  this  you  will  no  longer  care 
for  me. 

"  One  evening  you  made  me  understand  that  you 
cared  for  me;  and  I  replied  to  you  only  by  a  dazed 
silence  that  neither  you  nor  I  entirely  understood  at  the 
time.  It  was  not  contempt  for  you — yet,  perhaps,  I 
could  not  really  have  cared  very  deeply  for  such  a  man 
as  you  then  seemed  to  be.  It  was  not  intellectual  in 
difference  that  silenced  me.  .  .  .  And  I  can  say  no 
more  about  it — except  that — something — changed  me 
radically  from  that  moment — and  ever  since  I  have 
been  trying  to  understand  myself — to  learn  something 
about  myself — and  of  the  world  I  live  in — and  of  men. 

"  When  a  crisis  arrives  self-revelation  comes  in  a 
single  flash.  My  financial  crisis  arrived  as  you  know; 
I  suddenly  saw  myself  as  I  am — a  woman  astonishingly 
undeveloped  and  ignorant  in  many  ways,  crude,  unawak- 
ened,  stupid — a  woman  half-blinded  with  an  unreason 
ing  dread  of  more  pain — pain  which  she  thought  had  at 
last  been  left  behind  her — and  a  coward  all  through; 
and  selfish  from  head  to  heel. 

"  This  is  what  I  really  am.  And  I  shall  prove  it  by 
marrying  for  reasons  entirely  material,  because  I  have  no 
courage  to  ever  again  face  adversity  and  unhappiness. 

194 


'I  say,  Quarren — does  this  old  lady  hang 


083 


\\m 

if 


next  to  the  battered  party  in  black?" 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You  will  not  care  to  write  to  me ;  and  you  will  not 
care  to  see  me  again. 

"  I  am  glad  you  once  cared  for  me.  If  you  should 
ever  reply  to  this  letter,  don't  be  very  unkind  to  me.  I 
know  what  I  am — and  I  vaguely  surmise  what  I  shall 
lose  by  being  so.  But  I  have  no  courage  for  anything 

else'  "  STRELSA  LEEDS." 

That  was  the  letter  she  wrote  to  Quarren ;  and  he 
read  it  standing  by  his  desk  while  several  noisy  workmen 
were  covering  every  available  inch  of  his  walls  with 
Dankmere's  family  pictures,  and  the  little  Earl  himself, 
whistling  a  lively  air,  trotted  about  superintending 
everything  with  all  the  cheerful  self-confidence  of  a 
family  dog  regulating  everything  that  goes  on  in  his 
vicinity. 

"  I  say,  Quarren — does  this  old  lady  hang  next  to 
the  battered  party  in  black?  "  he  demanded  briskly. 

Quarren  looked  around ;  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  they're 
both  by  Nicholas  Maas  according  to  your  list." 

"  /  think  they're  bally  fakes,"  remarked  the  Earl, 
"don't  you?" 

"  We'll  try  to  find  out,"  said  Quarren,  absently. 

Dankmere  puffed  away  on  his  cigar  and  consulted  his 
list:  "  Reynolds  (Sir  Joshua).  Portrait  of  Lady  Dank- 
mere,"  he  read ;  "  portrait  of  Sir  Boggs  Dankmere ! — 
string  'em  up  aloft  over  that  jolly  little  lady  with  no 
frock  on! — Rembrandt  (Van  Rijn).  Born  near  Ley- 
den,  July  15th,  1607 — Oh,  who  cares  as  long  as  it 
is  a  Rembrandt! — Is  it,  Quarren?  It  isn't  a  copy, 
is  it?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  young  fellow  absently. 

"  Egad !  So  do  I."  And  to  the  workmen—"'  Phile- 
195 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


mon  and  Baucis  by  Rembrandt !  Hang  'em  up  next  to 
that  Romney — over  the  Jan  Steen  .  .  .  Quarren  ?  " 

"Yes?" 

"  Do  you  think  that  St.  Michael's  Mount  is  a  real 
Turner?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it,  I  can't  express  opinions  off-hand, 
Dankmere." 

"  I  can,"  said  the  little  Earl ;  "  and  I  say  that  if  that 
is  a  Turner  I  can  beat  it  myself  working  with  tomato 
catsup,  an  underdone  omelette,  and  a  clothes-brush.  .  .  . 
Hello !  I  like  this  picture.  The  list  calls  it  a  Watteau 
— '  The  Fete  Champetre.'  What  do  you  know  about  it, 
Quarren  ?  " 

"  Nothing  yet.     It  seems  to  be  genuine  enough." 

"  And  this  pretty  girl  by  Boucher?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  Dankmere,  that  I  don't  know.  They 
all  appear  to  be  genuine,  after  a  superficial  examination. 
It  takes  time  to  be  sure  about  any  picture — and  if  we're 
going  to  be  certain  it  will  require  confabs  with  author 
ities — restorers,  dealers,  experts,  curators  from  vari 
ous  museums — all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people  must 
be  approached  and  warily  consulted — and  paid,"  he 
added  smiling.  "  And  that  has  to  be  done  with  circum 
spection  because  some  are  not  honest  and  we  don't  want 
anybody  to  get  the  impression  that  we  are  attempting 
to  bribe  anybody  for  a  favourable  verdict." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  went  across  the  street  and 
telegraphed  to  Molly  Wycherly: 

"  May  I  remind  you  that  you  asked  me  to  Witch- 

H°110W?  QUARRKN." 

The  following  morning  after  the  workmen  had  de 
parted,  he  and  Dankmere  stood  contemplating  the  trans- 

196 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

formations  wrought  in  the  office,  back  parlour,  and  ex 
tension  of  Quarren's  floor  in  the  shabby  old  Lexington 
Avenue  house. 

The  transformation  was  complete ;  all  woodwork 
had  been  painted  white,  a  gray-green  paper  hung  on 
the  walls,  the  floor  stained  dark  brown  and  covered  with 
several  antique  rugs  which  had  come  with  the  pictures 
— a  Fereghan,  a  Ladik,  and  an  ancient  Herez  with  rose 
and  sapphire  lights  in  it. 

At  the  end  of  the  suite  hung  another  relic  of  Dank- 
mere  Tarns — a  Gobelins  tapestry  about  ten  by  twelve, 
signed  by  Audran,  the  subject  of  which  was  Boucher's 
"  Venus,  Mars,  and  Vulcan  "  from  the  picture  in  the 
Wallace  Collection.  Opposite  it  was  suspended  an  old 
Persian  carpet  of  the  sixteenth  century — a  magnificent 
Dankmere  heirloom  woven  in  the  golden  age  of  ancient 
Eastern  art  and  displaying  amid  the  soft  splendour  of  its 
matchless  hues  the  strange  and  exquisitely  arched  cloud- 
forms  traced  in  forgotten  dyes  amid  a  wilderness  of  deli 
cate  flowers  and  vines. 

Between  these  two  fabrics,  filling  the  walls  from 
base-board  to  ceiling,  were  ranged  Dankmere's  pictures. 
Few  traces  of  the  real-estate  office  remained — merely  a 
desk,  letter-file,  a  shelf  piled  up  with  maps,  and  Quar 
ren's  shingle  outside ;  but  this  was  now  overshadowed 
by  the  severely  magnificent  sign : 


THE   DANKMERE   GALLERY 

OF 

OLD    MASTERS 
ALGERNON  FAYRE,  R.  S.  QUARREN  &  Co. 

197 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

For  Lord  Dankmere,  otherwise  Algernon  Cecil  Clar 
ence  Fayre,  Earl  of  Dankmere,  had  decided  to  dedicate 
to  trade  only  a  portion  of  his  aristocratic  appellations. 
As  for  the  company,  it  consisted  of  Quarren's  cat, 
Daisy,  and  her  litter  of  unweaned  kittens. 

"  Do  you  realise,"  said  Quarren,  dropping  into  the 
depths  of  a  new  easy-chair,  "  that  you  have  almost  put 
me  out  of  business  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  weren't  in  very  deeply,  you  know,"  com 
mented  Dankmere. 

"  No ;  but  last  week  I  went  to  bed  a  broker  in  real 
estate;  and  this  week  I  wake  up  a  picture  dealer  and 
your  partner.  It's  going  to  take  most  of  my  time.  I 
can't  sell  a  picture  unless  I  know  what  it  is.  I've  got 
to  find  out — or  try  to.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  it  means  chucking  your  real  estate,"  said 
Dankmere,  imperturbably.  "Why  not?  This  is  a  bet 
ter  gamble.  And  if  we  make  anything  we  ought  to  make 
something  worth  while." 

"  Do  you  propose  that  I  shall  simply  drop  my  en 
tire  business — close  up  everything  and  go  into  this 
thing  permanently  ?  "  demanded  Quarren. 

"  It  will  come  to  that,  ultimately.  Don't  you  want 
to?" 

From  the  beginning  Quarren  had  felt,  vaguely,  that 
it  would  come  to  that — realised  instinctively  that  in 
such  an  enterprise  he  would  be  on  solid  ground — that 
the  idea  was  pleasant  to  him — that  his  tastes  fitted  him 
for  such  an  occupation.  Experience  was  lacking,  but, 
somehow,  his  ignorance  did  not  dismay  him. 

All  his  life  he  had  cared  for  such  things,  been  famil 
iar  with  them,  been  curious  to  learn  more,  had  read 
enough  to  understand  something  of  the  fascinating 

198 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

problems  now  confronting  him,  had,  in  his  hours  of 
leisure,  familiarised  himself  with  the  best  of  art  in  the 
public  and  private  galleries  of  the  city. 

More  than  that  a  natural  inclination  and  curiosity 
had  led  him  among  dealers,  restorers,  brokers  of  pictures. 
He  knew  them  all  from  Fifth  Avenue  to  Lexington,  the 
celebrated  and  the  obscure;  he  had  heard  them  talk, 
heard  the  gossip  and  scandal  of  their  curious  world, 
watched  them  buying,  selling,  restoring,  relining,  re- 
framing;  listened  to  their  discussions  concerning  their 
art  and  the  art  in  which  they  dealt.  And  it  had  always 
fascinated  him  although,  until  Dankmere  arrived,  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  make  a  living  out  of  a 
heterogeneous  mass  of  partly  assimilated  knowledge  ac 
quired  from  the  sheer  love  of  the  subject. 

Fortunate  the  man  whose  means  of  livelihood  is  also 
his  pleasure !  Deep  in  his  heart  lies  the  unconscious  con 
tentment  of  certainty. 

And  somehow,  with  the  advent  of  Dankmere's  pic 
tures,  into  Quarren's  troubled  heart  had  come  a  vague 
sensation  of  ease — a  cessation  of  the  old  anxiety  and 
unrest — a  quiet  that  he  had  never  before  Imown. 

To  learn  what  his  wares  really  were  seemed  no  for 
midable  task;  to  appreciate  and  appraise  each  one  only 
little  labours  of  love.  Every  problem  appeared  to  him 
as  a  separate  attraction;  the  disposal  of  his  stock  a 
delightful  and  leisurely  certainty  because  he  himself 
would  be  certain  of  what  he  dealt  in. 

Then,  too,  his  mind  had  long  since  invaded  a  future 
which  day  by  day  grew  more  alluring  in  its  suggestions. 
He  himself  would  learn  the  practical  and  manual  art 
of  restoration — learn  how  to  clean,  reline,  revarnish ; 
how  to  identify,  how  to  dissect.  Every  thread  of  an 

199 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ancient  canvas  should  tell  him  a  true  story ;  every 
grain  in  an  old  panel.  He  would  be  chief  surgeon  in 
his  hospital  for  old  and  decrepit  masterpieces ;  he  would 
"  cradle  "  with  his  own  hands — clear  the  opacity  from 
time-dimmed  beauty  with  savant  touch,  knit  up  tenderly 
the  wounds  of  ages 

"  Dankmere,"  he  said,  throwing  away  his  cigarette, 
"  I'm  going  into  this  business  from  this  minute ;  and  I 
w^ould  like  to  die  in  harness,  at  the  end,  the  companion, 
surgeon,  and  friend  of  old-time  pictures.  Do  you  think 
I  can  make  a  living  at  it?  " 

"  God  knows.  Do  you  mean  that  you're  really  keen 
on  it?" 

"  Dead  keen." 

Dankmere  puffed  on  his  cigar :  "  A  chap  usually 
makes  out  pretty  well  when  he's  a  bit  keen  on  anything 
of  sorts.  You'll  be  owning  the  gallery,  next,  you  in 
fernal  Yankee !  " 

Quarren  laughed :  "  I  won't  forget  that  you  gave 
me  my  first  real  chance  in  the  world.  You've  done  it, 
too ;  do  you  realise  it,  Dankmere?  " 

"  Very  gla*d  I'm  sure." 

"  So  am  I !  "  said  Quarren  with  sudden  emphasis. 
"  I  believe  I'm  on  the  right  track  now.  I  believe  it's  in 
me — in  my  heart — to  work — to  work!" — he  laughed 
— "  as  the  old  chronicles  say,  '  To  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  happiness  of  self  and  mankind.'  .  .  .  I'm 
grateful  to  you ;  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Awf'lly  glad,  old  chap." 

"  You  funny  Englishman — I  believe  you  are.  .  .  . 
And  we'll  make  this  thing  go.  Down  comes  my  real-es 
tate  shingle ;  I'm  a  part  of  the  Dankmere  Galleries  now. 
I'll  rent  the  basement  after  our  first  sale  and  there  you 

200 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


and  I  will  fuss  and  tinker  and  doctor  and  nurse  any 
poor  old  derelict  of  a  picture  back  to  its  pristine  beauty. 
What?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  little  Earl.  "  All  I'm  good  for  is 
to  furnish  the  initial  stock.  You  may  do  what  you 
please  with  it,  and  we'll  share  profits  according  to  con 
tract.  Further  than  that,  Quarren,  you'll  have  to  count 
me  out." 

"  Don't  you  care  for  pictures  ?  " 

"  I  prefer  horses,"  said  the  Earl  drily — "  and,  after 
the  stable  and  kennel,  my  taste  inclines  toward  Vaude 
ville."  And  he  cocked  up  one  little  leg  over  the  other 
and  whistled  industriously  at  a  waltz  which  he  was  at 
tempting  to  compose.  He  possessed  a  high,  maddening, 
soprano  whistle  which  Quarren  found  painful  to  endure ; 
and  he  was  glad  when  his  lordship  departed,  jauntily 
twirling  his  walking-stick  and  taking  fancy  dance  steps 
as  far  as  the  front  door. 

Left  alone  Quarren  leaned  back  in  his  chair  resting 
his  head  against  the  new  olive-tinted  velvet. 

He  had  nothing  to  do  but  sit  there  and  gaze  at  the 
pictures  and  wait  for  an  answer  to  his  telegram. 

It  came  about  dusk  and  he  lighted  the  gas  to  read  it : 

"  Come  up  to  Witch-Hollow  to-morrow. 

"  MARIE    WYCHERLY." 

He  could  not  leave  until  he  had  planned  for  work 
to  go  on  during  his  absence.  First  he  arranged  with 
Valasco  to  identify  as  nearly  as  possible,  and  to  appraise, 
the  French  and  Italian  pictures.  Then  he  made  an  ar 
rangement  with  Van  Boschoven  for  the  Dutch  and  Flem 
ish  ;  secured  Drayton-Quinn  for  the  English ;  and  warned 
Dankmere  not  to  bother  or  interfere  with  these  tempera- 

201 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

mental  and  irascible  gentlemen  while  in  exercise  of 
their  professional  duties. 

"  Don't  whistle,  don't  do  abrupt  skirt-dances,  don't 
sing  comic  songs,  don't  obscure  the  air  with  cigar  smoke, 
don't  go  to  sleep  on  the  sofa  and  snore,  don't  drink 
fizzes  and  rattle  the  ice  in  your  glass " 

"  My  God !  "  faltered  his  lordship,  "  do  you  mind  if 
I  breathe  now  and  then  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  away  a  few  days — Valasco  is  slow,  and  the 
others  take  their  time.  Let  anybody  come  in  who  wants 
to,  but  don't  sell  anything  until  the  experts  report  to 
me  in  writing — 

"  Suppose  some  chap  rushes  in  with  ten  thou 
sand — 

"No!" 

"What?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Chaps  who  rush  in  with  any  seri 
ous  money  at  all  will  rush  in  again  all  the  faster  if  you 
make  them  wait.  Don't  sell  a  picture — not  even  to 
Valasco  or  any  of  the  experts " 

"  Suppose  a  charming  lady " 

"  Now  you  understand,  don't  you  ?  I  wouldn't  think 
of  selling  a  single  canvas  until  I  have  their  reports  and 
have  made  up  my  own  mind  that  they're  as  nearly  right 
as  any  expert  can  be  who  didn't  actually  see  the  artist 
paint  the  picture.  The  only  trustworthy  expert  is  the 
man  who  saw  the  picture  painted — if  you  can  believe  his 
word." 

"  But  my  dear  Quarren,"  protested  Dankmere,  seri 
ously  bewildered — "  how  could  any  living  expert  ever 
have  seen  an  artist,  who  died  two  hundred  years  ago, 
paint  anything?  " 

"  Right,"  said  Quarren  solemnly ;  "  the  t>oint  is 
202 


THE    STEEETS    OF   ASCALON 

keenly  taken.  Ergo,  there  are  no  real  experts,  only 
guessers.  When  Valasco  et  al  finish  their  guessing,  I'll 
guess  how  near  they  have  guessed  correctly.  Good-bye. 
.  .  .  You  will  be  good,  won't  you,  Dankmere  ?  " 

"  No  fear.  I'll  keep  my  weather  eye  on  the  shop. 
Do  you  want  me  to  sleep  here?  " 

"  You'd  better,  I  think.  But  don't  have  rowdy  par 
ties  here,  will  you?  And  don't  wander  away  and  leave 
the  door  open.  By  George!  I  believe  I'd  better 
stay " 

"  Rot !  Go  on  and  take  your  vacation,  old  chap  t 
Back  in  a  week  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  or  any  time  you  wire  me " 

"  Not  I.    I'll  have  a  jolly  time  by  myself." 

"  Don't  have  too  many  men  here  in  the  evening. 
The  smoke  will  get  into  those  new  curtains— " 

Dankmere,  in  his  trousers  and  undershirt,  stretched 
on  the  divan,  laughed  and  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  at  the 
ceiling.  Then,  reaching  forth  he  took  a  palm-leaf  fan 
in  one  hand,  a  tall,  frosty  glass  in  the  other,  and  applied 
both  in  a  manner  from  which  he  could  extract  the  most 
benefit. 

"  Bon  voyage !  "  he  nodded  to  Quarren.  "  My  du 
ties  and  compliments  and  all  that — and  pick  me  out  an 
heiress  of  sorts — there's  a  good  fellow " 

As  Quarren  went  out  he  heard  his  lordship  burst 
forth  into  his  distressing  whistle ;  and  he  left  him 
searching  piercingly  for  inspiration  to  complete  his 
"  Coster's  Hornpipe." 

On  the  train  Quarren  bought  the  evening  papers; 
and  the  first  item  that  met  his  eye  was  a  front-page  col 
umn  devoted  to  the  Dankmere  Galleries.  Every  paper 

203 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

had  broken  out  into  glaring  scare-heads  announcing  the 
recent  despoiling  of  Dankmere  Tarns  and  the  venture 
into  trade  of  Algernon  Cecil  Clarence  Fayre,  tenth  Earl 
of  Dankmere.  The  majority  of  papers  were  facetious, 
one  or  two  scathing,  but  the  more  respectable  journals 
managed  to  repress  a  part  of  their  characteristic  an 
tagonism  and  report  the  matter  with  a  minimum  of 
venom  and  a  rather  exhaustive  historical  accompani 
ment  : 

"POOR  PEERS  EAGER  TO  SELL  HEIRLOOMS 

"  LORD  DANKMERE'S  CASE  SAID  TO  BE  ONE  OF  DOZENS 
AMONG  THE  BRITISH  ARISTOCRACY 

"GAMBLING    SPIRIT    BLAMED 


TO  THIS  CAUSE MANY  RENT  ROLLS  DECLARED 

TO  BE  MORTGAGED 

"  The  opening  of  the  so-called  Dankmere  galleries 
on  Lexington  Avenue  will  bring  into  the  lime-light  once 
more  a  sprightly  though  somewhat  world-battered  little 
Peer  recently  and  disastrously  connected  with  the  stage 
and  its  feminine  adjuncts. 

"  The  Dankmere  galleries  blossom  in  a  shabby  old 
house  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  Chop-Suey  restaurant 
haunted  of  celestials,  and  on  the  other  by  an  undertak 
er's  establishment  displaying  the  following  enterpris 
ing  sign :  Mortem's  Popular  $50  Funerals !  Bury 
Your  Family  at  Attractive  Prices ! 

"GAMBLING  DID  IT! 

"  Gambling  usually  lands  the  British  Peer  on  his 
204 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

aristocratic  uppers.  But  in  this  case  gambolling  behind 
the  footlights  is  responsible  for  the  present  display 
of  the  Dankmere  family  pictures  in  the  converted 
real-estate  offices  of  young  Mr.  Quarren  of  cotillion 
fame. 

"  Among  supposedly  well-to-do  English  nobles  the 
need  for  ready  cash  so  frequently  reaches  the  acute 
stage  that  all  manner  of  schemes  are  readily  resorted 
to  in  an  effort  to  '  raise  the  wind.' 

"  Lord  Dankmere  openly  admits  that  had  he 
supposed  any  valuable  '  junk '  lay  concealed  in  the 
attics  of  his  mansion,  he  would,  without  hesita 
tion,  have  converted  it  into  ready  money  long  be 
fore  this. 

"  Lord  Dankmere's  case  is  only  one  typical  of  dozens 
of  other^  among  the  exclusive  and  highly  placed  of  May- 
fair.  It  is  a  known  fact  that  since  the  sale  of  the  Capri 
Madonna  (Titian)  for  $350,000  to  the  British  Gov 
ernment,  by  special  act  of  Parliament,  Daffydill  Palace 
has  gradually  been  unloaded  of  all  treasures  not  tied  by 
the  entail  to  the  estate.  For  the  same  sum  ($350,000) 
the  late  Earl  of  Blitherington  disposed  of  his  famous  Li 
brary  and  the  sale  of  the  library  was  known  to  be 
necessary  for  the  provision  of  living  funds  for  the 
incoming  heir.  Just  recently  the  Duke  of  Putney, 
reputed  to  be  a  man  of  vast  wealth,  had  a  difficulty 
with  a  dealer  concerning  the  sale  of  some  of  his 
treasures. 

"  Such  cases  may  be  justified  by  circumstances. 
The  general  public  hears,  however,  of  only  a  few  isolated 
cases.  The  number  of  private  deals  that  are  executed, 
week  in,  week  out,  between  impoverished  members  of  the 
highest  nobility — some  of  them  bound,  like  Lord  Blith- 

205 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

erington  and  the  Duke  of  Putney  by  close  official  ties 
to  the  Court — and  the  agents  of  either  new-rich  British 
ers  or  wealthy  Americans  has  reached  its  maximum,  and 
by  degrees  unentailed  treasures  and  heirlooms  are  pass 
ing  from  owners  of  many  centuries  to  families  that  were 
unheard  of  a  dozen  years  ago. 

"THE    AWFUL    YANKEE 

"  The  American  is  given  priority  in  the  matter  of 
purchase,  not  only  because  he  pays  more,  as  a  rule,  but 
also  for  the  reason  that  the  transfer  of  his  prize  to  the 
United  States  removes  the  possibility  of  noble  sellers 
being  pestered  with  awkward  questions  by  the  inquis 
itive.  For,  however  unostentatiously  home  deals  are 
made  and  transfers  effected,  society  soon  learns  the 
facts.  So  hard  up,  however,  has  the  better-known  aris 
tocracy  become,  and  so  willing  are  they  to  trade  at 
fancy  sums  to  anxious  purchasers,  that  several  curio 
dealers  in  the  St.  James's  quarter  hold  unlimited  power 
of  attorney  to  act  for  plutocratic  American  principals 
either  in  the  United  States  or  in  this  country. 

"  Those  who  are  reasonably  entitled  to  explain  the 
cause  of  this  poverty  among  old  families,  whose  landed 
estates  are  unimpaired  in  acreage  at  least,  and  whose 
inheritance  was  of  respectable  proportions,  declare  that 
not  since  the  eighteenth  century  has  the  gambling  spirit 
so  persistently  invaded  the  inside  coteries  of  high  so 
ciety.  The  desire  to  acquire  riches  quickly  seems  to 
have  taken  hold  of  the  erstwhile  staid  and  conventional 
upper  ten,  just  as  it  has  seized  upon  the  smart  set.  The 
recent  booms  in  oil  and  rubber  have  had  the  effect  of 
transferring  many  a  comfortable  rent  roll  from  its  own- 

206 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

er's  bankers — milady's  just  as  often  as  milord's — to  the 
chartered  mortgagors  of  the  financial  world.  The  panic 
in  America  in  1907  showed  to  what  extent  the  English 
nobility  was  interested,  not  only  in  gilt-edged  securities, 
but  also  to  what  degree  it  was  involved  in  wildcat 
finance.  The  directing  geniuses  of  many  of  the  suspect 
ventures  of  to-day  in  London  are  often  the  possessors 
of  names  that  are  writ  rubric  in  the  pages  of  Debrett 
and  Burke. 

"  According  to  a  London  radical  paper,  there  are  at 
present  over  a  score  of  estates  in  the  auction  mart  which 
must  soon  pass  from  some  of  the  bluest-blooded  nobles 
in  Great  Britain  to  men  whose  fortunes  have  grown  in 
the  past  few  years  from  the  humblest  beginnings,  a  fact 
which  itself  cannot  fail  to  change  both  the  tone  and  con 
stitution  of  town  and  country  society." 

Quarren  read  every  column,  grimly,  to  the  end, 
wincing  when  he  encountered  some  casual  reference  to 
himself  and  his  recent  social  activities.  Then,  lips  com 
pressed,  boyish  gaze  fixed  on  the  passing  landscape,  he 
sat  brooding  until  at  last  the  conductor  opened  the 
door  and  shouted  the  name  of  his  station. 

The  Wycherlys'  new  place,  Witch-Hollow,  a  big 
rambling  farm  among  the  Connecticut  hills,  was  only 
three  hours  from  New  York,  and  half  an  hour  by  auto 
mobile  from  the  railroad.  The  buildings  were  wooden 
and  not  new ;  a  fashionable  architect  had  made  the  large 
house  "  colonially  "  endurable  with  furnaces  and  elec 
tricity  as  well  as  with  fan-lights  and  fluted  pilasters. 

Most  of  the  land  remained  wild — weed-grown  pas 
tures,  hard-wood  ridges,  neglected  orchards  planted  sev 
enty  years  ago.  Molly  Wycherly  had  ordered  «-  brand 

207 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

new  old-time  garden  to  be  made  for  her  overlooking  the 
wide,  unruffled  river ;  also  a  series  of  sylvan  paths  along 
the  wooded  shores  of  the  hill-set  lake  which  was  inhabited 
by  bass  placed  there  by  orders  of  her  husband. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  don't 
try  to  knock  any  antiquity  into  the  place ;  I'm  sick  of 
fine  old  ancestral  halls  put  up  by  building-loan  asso 
ciations.  Plenty  of  paint  and  varnish  for  mine,  Molly, 
and  a  few  durable  iron  fountains  and  bronze  stags  on 
the  lawn " 

"  No,  Jim,"  she  said  firmly. 

So  he  ordered  an  aeroplane,  a  herd  of  sheep,  a  shep 
herd,  and  two  tailless  sheep-dogs,  and  made  plans  to 
spend  most  of  his  vacation  yachting,  when  he  did  not 
spend  it  in  town. 

But  he  was  restlessly  domiciled  at  Witch-Hollow, 
now,  and  he  met  Quarren  at  the  station  in  a  bright  pur 
ple  runabout  which  he  drove  like  lightning,  one  hand 
on  the  steering  wheel,  the  other  carelessly  waving  toward 
the  streaky  landscape  in  affable  explanation  of  the  vari 
ous  points  of  interest. 

"  Quite  a  little  colony  of  us  up  here,  Quarren,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  know  why  anybody  picked  out  this  silly 
country  for  estates,  but  Langly  Sprowl  started  a  stud 
farm  over  yonder,  and  then  poor  Chester  Ledwith  built 
a  house  for  his  wife  in  the  middle  of  a  thousand  acres, 
over  there  where  you  see  those  maple  woods ! — and  then 
people  began  to  come  and  pick  up  worn-out  farms  and 
make  'em  into  fine  old  family  places — Lester  Caldera's 
model  dairies  are  behind  that  hill ;  and  that  leather- 
headed  O'Hara  has  a  bungalow  somewhere — and  there's 
a  sort  of  Hunt  Club,  too,  and  a  bum  pack  of  Ki- 

ji's " 

208 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

The  wind  tore  most  of  his  speech  from  his  lips  and 
whirled  it  out  of  earshot :  Quarren  caught  a  word  now 
and  then  which  interested  him.  It  also  interested  him 
to  observe  how  Wycherly  shaved  annihilation  at  every 
turn  of  the  road. 

"  I've  asked  some  men  to  bring  up  their  biplanes 
and  have  a  few  flies  on  me,"  continued  his  host — "  I've  a. 
'  Stinger  '  monoplane  and  a  Kent  biplane  myself.  I 
can't  get  any  more  sensation  out  of  motoring.  I'd  as 
soon  wheel  twins  in  a  go-cart." 

Quarren  saw  him  cleverly  avoid  death  with  one  hand,, 
and  laughed. 

"  Who  is  stopping  with  you  up  here?  "  he  shouted 
close  to  Wycherly's  ear. 

"  Nobody — Mrs.  Leeds,  Chrysos  Lacy,  and  Sir 
Charles.  There  are  some  few  neighbours,  too — Langly 
is  mousing  and  prowling  about ;  and  that  poor  Ledwith 
man  is  all  alone  in  his  big  house — fixing  to  get  out  of 
it  so  his  wife  can  move  in  from  Reno  when  she's  ready 
for  more  mischief.  .  .  .  Here  we  are,  Quarren !  Your 
stuff  will  be  in  your  rooms  in  a  few  minutes.  There's 
my  wife,  now " 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Molly  but  let  Quarren  go  for 
ward  alone  while  he  started  across  the  fields  toward  his 
hangar  where,  in  grotesque  and  vicious-looking  immo 
bility,  reposed  his  new  winged  pet,  the  little  Stinger 
monoplane,  wings  set  as  wickedly  as  an  alert  wasp's. 


CHAPTER    IX 

As  Quarren  came  forward  between  the  peonies 
drooping  over  the  flagged  walk,  Molly  Wycherly, 
awaiting  him  on  the  veranda,  laid  her  forefinger  across 
her  lips  conjuring  caution. 

"  I  didn't  tell  Strelsa  that  you  were  coming,"  she 
whispered ;  "  I  didn't  suppose  the  child  could  possibly 
object." 

Quarren's  features  stiffened: 

"Does  she?" 

"  Why — this  morning  I  said  carelessly  to  Jim  that 
I  meant  to  ask  you,  and  Strelsa  came  into  my  room 
later  and  begged  me  not  to  ask  you  until  she  had  left." 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  the  boy,  grimly. 

"  I  really  don't  know,  Ricky " 

"  Yes,  you  do.     What  has  happened?  " 

"  You're  certainly   rude  enough " 

"  What  has  happened,  Molly?  " 

"  I  don't  know  for  certain,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Langly 
Sprowl  has  been  roving  around  the  place  a  great  deal 
lately.  He  and  Strelsa  ride  together  nearly  every  day." 

"  Do  you  think  she  has  come  to  an  understanding 
with  him?" 

"  She  hasn't  told  me  so.  Perhaps  she  prefers  Sir 
Charles." 

"Do  you  believe  that?" 

"  Frankly,  no.  I'm  much  more  afraid  that  Langly 
210 


"I  didn't  tell  Strelsa  that  you  were  coming,'  she  whispered." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALOX 


has  persuaded  her  into  some  sort  of  a  tacit  engagement. 
...  I  don't  know  what  the  child  can  be  thinking  of — 
unless  the  universal  criticism  of  Langly  Sprowl  has 
convinced  her  of  his  martyrdom.  .  .  .  There'll  be  a 
pretty  situation  when  Mary  Ledwith  returns.  ...  I 
could  kill  Langly — "  She  doubled  both  pretty  hands 
and  frowned  at  Quarren,  then  her  swift  smile  broke  out 
and  she  placed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his  shoulders 
and  stooping  from  the  top  step  deliberately  kissed 
him. 

"  You  dear  fellow,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't  care  what 
Strelsa  thinks ;  I'm  glad  you've  come.  And,  oh,  Ricky ! 
The  papers  are  full  of  you  and  Dankmere  and  your 
new  enterprise! — I  laughed  and  laughed! — forgive  me, 
but  the  papers  were  so  funny — and  I  couldn't  help 
laughing " 

Quarren  forced  a  smile. 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  said,  "  that  our  new  business 
is  destined  to  command  a  good  deal  of  respect  sooner 
or  later." 

"  Has  Dankmere  anything  really  valuable  in  his 
collection  ?  " 

"  I'm  taking  that  risk,"  he  said,  gaily.  "  Wait  a 
few  weeks,  Molly,  before  you  and  Jim  try  to  buy  the 
entire  collection." 

"  I  can  see  Jim  decorating  the  new  '  Stinger  '  with 
old  masters,"  laughed  Molly.  "  Come  upstairs  with 
me ;  I'll  show  you  your  quarters.  Go  lightly  and  don't 
talk ;  Strelsa  is  wandering  around  the  house  somewhere 
with  a  bad  case  of  blue  devils,  and  I'd  rather  she  were 
over  her  headache  before  your  appearance  adds  another 
distressing  jolt." 

"  Has  she  had  another  shock  recently  ?  " 
211 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  A  letter  from  her  lawyers.  There  won't  be  any 
thing  at  all  left  for  her." 

"  Are  you  sure?  " 

"  She  is.  Why,  Ricky,  the  City  had  half  a  million 
on  deposit  there,  and  even  that  foxy  young  man  Langly 
was  caught  for  twice  as  much  more.  It's  a  ghastly 
scandal — the  entire  affair.  How  many  cents  on  a  dol 
lar  do  you  suppose  poor  little  Strelsa  is  going  to  re 
cover?  Not  two !  " 

They  paused  at  the  door  of  his  quarters.  His  lug 
gage  had  already  arrived  and  a  valet  was  busy  unpack 
ing  for  him. 

"  Sir  Charles,  Chrysos  Lacy,  Jim  and  I  are  motor 
ing.  We'll  be  back  for  tea.  Prowl  about,  Ricky ;  the 
place  is  yours  and  everything  in  it — except  that  little 
girl  over  there  " — pointing  along  the  corridor  to  a  dis 
tant  door. 

He  smiled.  "  She  may  be,  yet,"  he  said  lightly. 
"  Don't  come  back  too  soon." 

So  Molly  went  away  laughing;  and  presently 
through  the  lace  curtains,  Quarren  saw  Jim  Wycherly 
whirl  up  in  a  yellow  touring  car,  and  Molly,  Chrysos, 
and  Sir  Charles  clamber  in  for  one  of  those  terrific  and 
headlong  drives  which  made  Jim's  hospitality  a  terror 
to  the  majority  of  his  guests. 

Quarren  watched  the  car  disappear,  hopelessly  fol 
lowed  by  an  overfed  setter.  Then  the  dust  settled ;  the 
fat  family  pet  came  panting  back  to  lie  down  on  the 
lawn,  dead  beat,  and  Quarren  resumed  his  toilet. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  emerged  from  his  quarters 
wearing  tennis  flannels  and  screwing  the  stem  into  a 
new  pipe  which  he  had  decided  to  break  in — a  tall,  well- 
built,  pleasant-eyed  young  fellow  with  the  city  pallor 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

blanching  his  skin  and  the  breeze  stirring  his  short 
blond  hair. 

"  Hello,  old  man !  "  he  said  affably  to  the  fat  setter, 
who  thumped  his  tail  on  the  grass  and  looked  up  at 
Quarren  with  mild,  deerlike  eyes. 

"We're  out  of  the  running,  we  two — aren't  we?  " 
he  added.  "You  try  very  pluckily  to  keep  up  with  your 
master's  devil-wagon ;  I  run  a  more  hopeless  race.  .  .  . 
For  the  golden  chariot  is  too  swift  for  me,  and  the  race 
is  to  the  swift ;  and  the  prize,  doggy,  is  a  young  girl's 
unhappy  heart  which  is  slowly  turning  from  sensitive 
flesh  and  blood  into  pure  and  senseless  gold." 

He  stood  under  a  tree  slowly  filling  his  pipe.  The 
scent  of  early  summer  was  in  the  air ;  the  odour  of  June 
peonies,  and  young  leaves  and  clear  waters ;  of  grasses 
and  hedges  and  distant  hemlocks. 

Leisurely,  the  fat  dog  waddling  at  his  heels,  he  saun 
tered  about  the  Wycherly  place  inspecting  its  renovated 
attractions — among  others  the  new  old-fashioned  gar 
den  full  of  new  old-fashioned  flowers  so  marvellously 
developed  by  modern  skill  that  he  recognised  scarcely 
any  of  them.  Petunias,  with  their  great  fluted  and  scal 
loped  blossoms  resembled  nothing  he  had  known  by  that 
name ;  the  peonies  seemed  to  him  enormous  and  exotic ; 
rockets,  larkspurs,  spiderwort,  pinks,  all  had  been  so 
fantastically  and  grotesquely  developed  by  modern  hor 
ticulture  that  Quarren  felt  as  though  he  were  wandering 
alone  among  a  gardenful  of  strangers.  Only  here  and 
there  a  glimpse  of  familiar  sweet-william  or  the  faint  per 
fume  of  lemon-verbena  brought  a  friendly  warmth  into 
his  heart ;  but,  in  hostile  silence  he  passed  by  hydrangea 
a,nd  althea,  syringa  and  preposterous  canna,  quietly  de 
testing  the  rose  garden  where  scores  of  frail  and  frivo- 

213 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

lous  strangers  nodded  amid  anaemic  leaves,  or  where 
great,  blatant,  aniline-coloured  blossoms  bulged  in  the 
sun,  seeming  to  repeat  with  every  strapping  bud  their 
Metropolitan  price  per  dozen. 

He  looked  in  at  the  stables  and  caressed  a  horse  or 
two ;  examined  the  sheepfold ;  passed  by  garage  and 
hangar  without  interest,  lingered  wistfully  by  the  ken 
nels  where  a  dozen  nervous  little  Blue  Beltons,  too 
closely  inbred,  welcomed  his  appearance  with  hysteric 
emotions. 

Beyond  the  kennels  he  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of 
blue  water  glimmering  between  tall  hemlock  trees ;  so 
he  took  the  lake  path  and  presently  rounded  a  sharp 
curve  where  a  rustic  bench  stood,  perched  high  above 
the  rocky  shore.  Strelsa  Leeds,  seated  there,  looked  up 
from  the  newspaper  which  she  had  been  reading.  Some 
of  the  colour  faded  from  her  cheeks.  There  was  a  sec 
ond's  silence,  then,  as  though  a  little  bewildered,  she 
looked  inquiringly  into  his  smiling  eyes  and  extended 
her  hand  toward  the  hand  he  offered. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming,"  she  said  with 
pallid  self-possession. 

"  I  telegraphed  for  permission.  Is  your  headache 
better?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  just  arrived?  " 

"  A  little  while  ago.  I  was  told  to  wander  about  and 
enjoy  the  Wycherlys'  new  ancestral  palace.  Does  a 
ghost  go  with  the  place?  You're  rather  pale,  Mrs. 
Leeds.  Have  they  engaged  you  as  the  family  phan 
tom?" 

She  laughed  a  little,  then  her  gray  eyes  grew 
sombre ;  and,  watching,  he  saw  the  dusky  purple  hue 
deepen  in  them  under  the  downward  sweep  of  the  lashes. 


So  he  took  the  lake  path  and 


presently  rounded  a  sharp  curve. 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak,  and  she  did  not.  Her 
remote  gaze  rested  on  the  lake  where  the  base  of  the 
rocks  fell  away  sheer  into  limpid  depths;  where  green 
trees,  reversed  in  untroubled  reflection,  tinted  the  still 
waters  exquisitely,  and  bits  of  sky  lay  level  as  in  a  look 
ing-glass. 

No  fish  broke  the  absolute  stillness  of  the  surface, 
no  breeze  ruffled  it ;  only  the  glitter  of  some  drifting 
dragon-fly  accented  the  intense  calm. 

"Are  you — offended?"  she  said  at  last,  her  gaze 
now  riveted  on  the  water. 

"  Of  course  not !  "  he  replied  cordially. 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  surveying  him  in  silence. 

"Why  did  you  suppose  so?"  he  asked  amiably. 

"  Did  you  receive  my  letter?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did." 

"  You  did  not  answer  it." 

"  I  didn't  know  how— then." 

His  reply  seemed  to  perplex  her — so  did  his  light 
and  effortless  good-humour. 

"  I  know  how  to  answer  it  now,"  he  added. 

She  forced  a  smile: 

"  Isn't  it  too  late  to  think  of  answering  that  letter, 
Mr.  Quarren  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said  pleasantly ;  "  a  man  who  is  afraid 
of  being  too  late  seldom  dares  start.  ...  I  wonder  if 
anything  could  induce  you  to  ask  me  to  be  seated  ?  " 

She  flushed  vividly  and  moved  to  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  seat.  He  took  the  other  end,  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  am  ready  to  answer 
your  letter." 

"Really,  Mr.  Quarren " 

215 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to?  " 

"  I — don't  think — it  matters,  now " 

"  But  it's  only  civil  of  me  to  answer  it,"  he  insisted, 
laughing. 

She  could  not  entirely  interpret  his  mood.  Of  one 
thing  she  had  been  instantly  conscious — he  had  changed 
since  she  had  seen  him — changed  radically.  There  was 
about  him,  now,  a  certain  inexplicable  air  suggesting 
assurance — an  individuality  which  had  not  heretofore 
clearly  distinguished  him — a  hidden  hint  of  strength. 
Or  was  she  mistaken — abashed — remembering  what  she 
had  written  him  in  a  bitter  hour  of  fear  and  self-abase 
ment?  A  thousand  times  she  had  regretted  writing  to 
him  what  she  had  written. 

She  said,  coldly :  "  I  think  that  my  letter  may  very 
properly  remain  unanswered." 

"You  think  I'm  too  late?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily: 

"  Yes,  you  are  too  late — in  every  sense." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  all  these  superficial  details  which,  un 
der  the  magnifying  glass  of  fear,  you  and  I  have  re 
garded  with  terrified  respect,  amount  to  nothing.  Real 
trouble  is  something  else ;  the  wings  of  tragedy  have 
never  yet  even  brushed  either  you  or  me.  But  unless 
you  let  me  answer  that  letter  of  yours,  and  listen  very 
carefully  to  my  answer,  you  and  I  are  going  to  learn 
some  day  what  tragedy  really  is." 

"  Mr.  Quarren !  "  she  exclaimed,  forcing  a  laugh, 
"  are  you  trying  to  make  me  take  you  seriously?  " 

"  I  certainly  am." 

"  That  in  itself  is  tragic  enough,"  she  laughed. 
216 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  really  is,"  he  said :  "  because  it  has  come  to  a 
time  when  you  have  got  to  take  me  seriously." 

She  had  settled  herself  into  a  bantering  attitude 
toward  him  and  now  gaily  maintained  the  lighter  vein : 

"  Merely  because  you  and  Lord  Dankmere  have 
become  respectable  tradesmen  and  worthy  citizens 
you've  hastened  up  here  to  admonish  the  frivolous,  I 
suppose." 

"  I'm  so  respectable  and  worthy,"  he  admitted, 
"  that  I  couldn't  resist  rushing  up  here  to  exhibit  my 
self.  Look  at  that  bruise !  " — he  held  out  to  her  his 
left  hand  badly  discoloured  between  thumb  and  fore 
finger. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  half  serious,  "what  is   it?" 

"  A  bang  with  an  honest  hammer.  Dankmere  and 
I  were  driving  picture-nails.  Oh,  Strelsa !  you  should 
have  listened  to  my  inadvertent  blank  verse,  celebrating 
the  occasion !  " 

The  quick,  warm  colour  stained  her  cheeks  as  she 
heard  him  use  her  given  name  for  the  first  time.  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  in  questioning  silence,  but  he  was 
still  laughing  over  his  reminiscence  and  seemed  so 
frankly  unconscious  of  the  liberty  he  had  taken  that, 
again,  a  slight  sense  of  confusion  came  over  her,  and  she 
leaned  back,  uncertain,  inwardly  wondering  what  his 
attitude  toward  her  might  really  mean. 

"  Do  you  admit  my  worthiness  as  a  son  of  toil?  " 
he  insisted. 

"  How  can  I  deny  it  ? — with  that  horrid  corrobora- 
tion  on  your  hand.  I'll  lend  you  some  witch-hazel " 

"  Witch-hazel  from  Witch-Hollow  ought  to  accom 
plish  all  kinds  of  magic,"  he  said.  "  I'll  be  delighted 
to  have  you  bind  it  up." 

217 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  didn't  offer  to ;  I  offered  you  merely  the  ingre 
dients." 

"  But  you  are  the  principal  ingredient.  Otherwise 
there's  no  virtue  in  a  handkerchief  soaked  with  witch- 
hazel." 

She  smiled,  then  in  a  low  voice :  "  There's  no  virtue 
in  me,  either." 

"  Is  that  why  you  didn't  include  yourself  in  your 
first-aid  offer?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  quietly,  watching  him  out  of 
her  violet-gray  eyes — a  little  curiously  and  shyly  now, 
because  he  had  moved  nearer  to  her,  and  her  arm,  ex 
tended  along  the  back  of  the  seat,  almost  touched  his 
shoulder. 

She  was  considering  whether  or  not  to  withdraw  it 
when  he  said : 

"  Have  you  any  idea  wrhat  a  jolly  world  this  old 
planet  can  be  when  it  wants  to  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

He  went  on :  "  I  mean  when  you  want  it  to  be.  Be 
cause  it's  really  up  to  you." 

"  To  me,  my  slangy  friend  ?  " 

"  To  you,  to  me,  to  anybody,  Strelsa." 

This  time  he  was  looking  smilingly  and  deliberately 
into  her  eyes ;  and  she  could  not  ignore  his  unwarranted 
freedom. 

"Why  do  you  use  my  first  name,  Mr.  Quarren?" 
she  asked  quietly. 

"  Because  I  always  think  of  you  as  Strelsa,  not  as 
Mrs.  Leeds." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  ?  " — very  gravely. 

"  You  can  make  it  so  if  you  will." 

She   hesitated,   watching   his   expression.      Then: 
218 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

"  You  say  that  you  always  think  of  me — that  way. 
But  I'm  afraid  that,  even  in  your  thoughts,  the  repeti 
tion  of  my  name  has  scarcely  accustomed  you  to  the 
use  of  it." 

"  You  mean  that  I  don't  think  of  you  very  fre 
quently  ?  " 

"  Something  like  that.  But  please,  Mr.  Quarren, 
if  you  really  mean  to  give  me  a  little  of  that  friendship 
which  I  had  begun  to  despair  of,  don't  let  our  very  first 
reunion  degenerate  into  silly  conversation " 

"  Strelsa " 

"  No !— please." 

"When?" 

She  flushed,  then,  slightly  impatient :  "  Do  you  make 
it  a  point',  Mr.  Quarren  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  do." 

"I?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Will  you  answer  me  honestly?" 

"  Have  you  ever  found  me  dishonest?  " 

"  Sometimes — with  yourself." 

Suddenly  the  colour  surged  in  her  cheeks  and  she 
turned  her  head  abruptly.  After  a  few  moments' 
silence : 

"  Ask  your  question,"  she  said  in  a  calm  and  indif 
ferent  voice. 

"  Then — do  you  ever,  by  any  accident,  think  of 
me?" 

She  foresaw  at  once  what  was  coming,  bit  her  lip, 
but  saw  no  wray  to  avoid  it. 

"  I  think  of  my  friends — and  you  among  them." 

"  Do  you  always  think  of  me  as  '  Mr.  Quarren  '  ?  " 

"  I — your    friends — people    are    eternally    dinning 

your  name  into  my  ears " 

219 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Please  answer." 

"  What  ?  "  She  .  turned  toward  him  disdainfully : 
"  Would  it  gratify  you  to  know  that  I  think  of  you  as 
Rix,  Ricky,  Dick — whatever  they  call  you?  " 

"Which?"  he  insisted,  laughing.  And  finally  she 
laughed,  too,  partly  in  sheer  exasperation. 

"  Rix!  "  she  said:  "  Now  are  you  satisfied?  I  don't 
know  why  on  earth  I  made  such  a  scene  about  it.  It's 
the  way  I  think  of  you — when  I  happen  to  remember 
you.  But  if  you  fancy  for  a  moment  I  am  going  to  call 
you  that,  please  awake  from  vain  dreams,  my  airy 
friend " 

"Won't  you?" 

"  No." 

"  Some  day?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Why  should  I?  I  don't  want  to. 
I  don't  feel  like  it.  It  would  be  forced,  artificial — an 
effort — and  I  don't  desire — wish — care 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  he  exclaimed,  laughing,  "  that's 
enough,  you  poor  child !  Do  you  think  I'd  permit  you 
to  undergo  the  suffering  necessary  to  the  pronunciation 
of  my  name  ?  " 

Amused  yet  resentful,  perplexed,  uncertain  of  this 
new  phase  of  the  man  beside  her,  she  leaned  back,  head 
slightly  lowered ;  but  her  gray  eyes  were  swiftly  lifted 
every  few  moments  to  watch  him.  Suddenly  she  became 
acutely  conscious  of  her  extended  arm  where  her  hand 
now  was  lightly  in  touch  with  the  rough  cloth  of  his 
sleeve ;  and  she  checked  a  violent  impulse  to  withdraw 
her  hand.  Then,  once  more,  and  after  all  these  months, 
the  same  strange  sensation  passed  through  her — a 
thrilling  consciousness  of  his  nearness. 

Absolutely  motionless,  confused  yet  every  instinct 
220 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

alert  to  his  slightest  word  or  movement,  she  sat  there, 
gray  eyes  partly  lowered. 

He  neither  spoke  nor  moved ;  his  pleasant  glance 
rested  absently  on  her,  then  wandered  toward  the  quiet 
lake ;  and  venturing  to  raise  her  eyes  she  saw  him  smile 
to  himself  and  wondered  uneasily  what  his  moment's 
thought  might  be. 

He  said,  still  smiling:  "What  is  it  in  that  curious 
combination  of  individualities  known  as  Strelsa  Leeds, 
that  rejects  one  composite  specimen  known  to  you  as 
Mister  Quarren?  " 

She  smiled,  uncertainly : 

"But  I  don't  reject  you,  Mister  Quarren." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  I'm  sensible  of  an  occult  wall  be 
tween  us." 

"  How  absurd.     Of  course  there  is  a  wall." 

"  I've  got  to  climb  over  it  then " 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to !  " 

"Strelsa?" 

"  W-what?" 

"  That  wall  isn't  a  golden  one,  is  it?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  money,"  he  said ;  and  she  blushed  from 
neck  to  hair. 

"  Please  don't  say  such  things 

"  No,  I  won't.  Because  if  you  cared  enough  for 
me  you  wouldn't  let  that  kind  of  a  wall  remain  between 
us-  — " 

"  I  ask  you  not  to  talk  about  such " 

"  You  wouldn't ,"  he  insisted,  smiling.  "  Nor  is 
there  now  any  reason  why  such  a  man  as  I  am  becom 
ing,  and  ultimately  will  be,  should  not  tell  you  that  he 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Please — if  you  please — I  had  rather  not — 

"  So,"  he  concluded,  still  smiling,  "  the  matter,  as 
it  stands,  is  rather  plain.  You  don't  care  for  me 
enough.  I  love  you — I  don't  know  how  much,  yet. 
When  a  girl  interposes  such  an  occult  barrier  and  a 
man  comes  slap  up  against  it,  he's  too  much  addled 
to  understand  exactly  how  seriously  he  is  in  love  with 
the  unknown  on  the  other  side." 

He  spoke  in  a  friendly,  almost  impersonal  way 
and,  as  though  quite  thoughtlessly,  dropped  his  left 
hand  over  her  right  which  lay  extended  along  the  back 
of  the  seat.  And  the  contact  seemed  to  paralyse  every 
nerve  in  her  body. 

"  Because,"  he  continued,  leisurely,  "  the  unknown 
does  lie  on  the  other  side  of  that  barrier — your  un 
known  self,  Strelsa — undiscovered  as  yet  by  me " 

Her  lips  moved  mechanically : 

"  I  wrote  you — told  you  what  I  am." 

"  Oh,  that?  "  He  laughed:  "  That  was  a  mood.  I 
don't  think  you  know  yourself " 

"  I  do.     I  am  what  I  wrote  you." 

"  Partly  perhaps — partly  a  rather  frightened  girl, 
still  quivering  from  a  sequence  of  blows ' 

"  Remembering  all  the  other  blows  that  have  marked 
almost  every  year  of  my  life! — But  those  would  not 
count — if  I  were  not  selfish,  dishonest,  and  a  coward." 

His  hand  closed  slightly  over  hers ;  for  a  moment  or 
t\vo  the  pressure  left  her  restless,  ill  at  ease;  but  she 
made  no  movement.  And  gradually  the  contact  stirred 
something  within  her  to  vague  response.  A  strange 
sense  of  rest  subtly  invaded  her ;  and  she  remained  silent 
and  motionless,  looking  down  at  the  still  lake  below. 

"  What  is  the  barrier  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 
222 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  There  is  no  barrier  to  your  friendship — if  you 
care  to  offer  it,  now  that  you  know  me." 

"  But  I  don't  know  you.  And  I  care  for  more  than 
your  friendship  even  after  the  glimpse  I  have  had  of 
you." 

"  I — care  only  for  friendship,  Mr.  Quarren." 

"  Could  you  ever  care  fpr  more?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  don't  wish  to.  ...  There  is  nothing 
higher." 

"  Could  you— if  there  were?  " 

But  she  remained  silent,  disturbed,  troubled  once 
more  by  the  light  weight  of  his  hand  over  hers  which 
seemed  to  be  awaking  again  the  new  senses  that  his 
touch  had  discovered  so  long  ago — and  which  had 
slumbered  in  her  ever  since.  Was  this  acquiescence, 
this  listless  relaxation,  this  lassitude  which  was  becom 
ing  almost  painful — or  sweet — she  did  not  understand 
which — was  this  also  a  part  of  friendship?  Was  it  a 
part  of  anything  intellectual,  spiritual,  worthy? — this 
deepening  emotion  which,  no  longer  vague  and  unde 
fined,  was  threatening  her  pulses,  her  even  breathing — - 
menacing  the  delicate  nerves  in  her  hand  so  that  already 
they  had  begun  to  warn  her,  quivering 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  sharply,  and  straightened 
her  shoulders  with  a  little  quick  indrawn  breath. 

"  I've  got  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said  abruptly 
— scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  saying. 

"What,  Strelsa?" 

"  I'm  going  to  marry  Langly  Sprowl.  I've  said 
I  would." 

Perhaps  he  had  expected  it.  For  a  few  moments 
the  smile  on  his  face  became  fixed  and  white,  then  he 
said,  cheerfully : 

223 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I'm  going  to  fight  for  you  all  the  same." 

"  What !  "  she  exclaimed,  crisply. 

"  Fight  hard,  too,"  he  added.  "  I'm  on  my  mettle 
ut  last." 

"  You   have   no  chance,  Mr.   Quarren." 

"  With — him?  "  He  shrugged  his  contempt.  "  I 
don't  consider  him  at  all " 

"  I  don't  care  to  hear  you  speak  that  way !  "  she 
said,  hotly. 

"  Oh,  I  won't.  A  man's  an  ass  to  vilify  his  rival. 
But  I  wasn't  even  thinking  of  him,  Strelsa.  My  fight  is 
with  you — with  your  unknown  self  behind  that  barrier. 
Garde  a  vous!  " 

"  I  decline  the  combat,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  trying 
to  speak  lightly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you — the  visible  you  that 
I'm  looking  at  and  which  I  know  something  about. 
That  incarnation  of  Strelsa  Leeds  will  fight  me  openly, 
fairly — and  I  have  an  even  chance  to  win — 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  she  said,  lip  between  her  teeth. 

"Don't  you?" 

"No." 

"  I  do.  .  .  .  But  it's  your  unknown  self  I'm  afraid 
of,  Strelsa.  God  alone  knows  what  it  may  do  to  both 
of  us." 

"  There  is  no  other  self!    What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  There  are  two  others — not  this  intellectual, 
friendly,  kindly,  visible  self  that  offers  friendship  and 
accepts  it — not  even  the  occult,  aloof,  spiritual  self  that 
I  sometimes  see  brooding  in  your  gray  eyes — 

"  There  is  no  other !  "  she  said,  flushing  and  rising 
to  her  feet. 

"Is  it  dead?" 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

"  It  never  lived  !  " 

"  Then,"  he  said  coolly,  "  it  will  be  born  as  sure  as 
I  stand  here! — born  to  complete  the  trinity."  He 
glanced  out  over  the  lake,  then  swung  around  sharply : 
"  You  are  wrong.  It  has  been  born.  And  that  un 
known  self  is  hostile  to  me ;  and  I  know  it !  " 

They  walked  toward  the  house  together,  silent  for 
a  while.  Then  she  said :  "  I  think  we  have  talked  some 
nonsense.  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  You  haven't." 

"  You're  a  generous  boy ;  do  you  know  it?  " 

"  You  say  so." 

"  Oh,  I'll  cheerfully  admit  it.  If  you  weren't  you'd 
detest  me — perhaps  despise  me." 

"  Men  don't  detest  or  despise  a  hurt  and  frightened 
child." 

"  But  a  selfish  and  cowardly  woman?  What  does 
a  man  of  your  sort  think  of  her?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Whatever  you  are  I 
can't  help  loving  you." 

She  strove  to  laugh  but  her  mouth  suddenly  became 
tremulous.  After  a  while  when  she  could  control  her 
lips  she  said: 

"  I  want  to  talk  some  more  to  you — and  I  don't 
know  how ;  I  don't  even  know  what  I  want  to  say  except 
that— that " 

"What,  Strelsa?" 

"  Please  be — kind  to  me."  She  smiled  at  him,  but 
her  lips  still  quivered. 

He  said  after  a  moment :  "  I  couldn't  be  anything 
else." 

"  Are  you  very  sure?  " 

"  Yes." 

225 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  means  a  great  deal  to  me,"  she  said. 

They  reached  the  house,  but  the  motor  party  had 
not  yet  returned.  Tea  was  served  to  them  on  the 
veranda;  the  fat  setter  came  and  begged  for  tastes  of 
things  that  were  certain  to  add  to  his  obesity ;  and  he 
got  them  in  chunks  and  bolted  them,  wagging. 

An  hour  later  the  telephone  rang;  it  was  Molly 
on  the  wire  and  she  wanted  to  speak  to  Quarren.  He 
could  hear  her  laughing  before  she  spoke : 

"Ricky  dear?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Am  I  an  angel  or  otherwise?  " 

"  Angel  always — but  why  particularly  at  this  in 
stant?" 

"  Stupid !  Haven't  you  had  her  alone  all  the  after 
noon  ?  " 

"  Yes — you  corker !  " 

"  Well,  then  !  " 

"  Molly,  I  worship  you." 

"  Et  apres?  " 

"  I'll  double  that!     I  adore  you  also !  " 

"Content!     What  are  you  two  doing?" 

"  Strelsa  and  I  have  been  taking  tea." 

"  Oh,  is  it  '  Strelsa  '  already?  " 

"  Very  unwillingly  on  her  part." 

"  It  isn't  <  Ricky,'  too,  is  it?  " 

"Alas!  not  yet!" 

"  No  matter.  The  child  is  horribly  lonely  and  de 
pressed.  What  do  you  think  I've  done,  very  cleverly  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Flattered  Jim  and  his  driving  until  I  induced  him 
to  take  us  all  the  way  to  North  Linden.  We  can't  pos 
sibly  get  back  until  dinner.  But  that's  not  all." 

226 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  What  more,  most  wonderful  of  women  ?  " 

"  I've  got  him  with  us,"  she  said  with  satisfaction. 
"  I  made  Jim  stop  and  pick  him  up.  I  knew  he  was 
planning  to  drop  in  on  Strelsa.  And  I  made  it  such  a 
personal  matter  that  he  should  come  with  us  to  see  some 
fool  horses  at  Acremont  that  he  couldn't  wriggle  out  of 
it  particularly  as  Strelsa  is  my  guest  and  he's  rather 
wary  of  offending  me.  Now,  Ricky,  make  the  best  of 
your  time  because  the  beast  is  dining  with  us.  I 
couldn't  avoid  asking  him." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Quarren  grimly. 

He  went  back  to  the  veranda  where  Strelsa  sat  be 
hind  the  tea-table  in  her  frail  pink  gown  looking  dis- 
tractingly  pretty  and  demure. 

"  What  had  Molly  to  say  to  you  all  that  time?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Was  I  long  away?  " 

"  Yes,  you  were !  " 

"  I'm  delighted  you  found  the  time  too  long 

"  I  did  not  say  so !  If  you  think  it  was  short  I 
shall  warn  Jim  Wycherly  how  time  flies  with  you  and 
Molly.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear !  Is  that  a  mosquito  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  said  Quarren. 

"  Then  indoors  I  go ! "  exclaimed  Strelsa  indig 
nantly.  "  You  may  come  with  me  or  remain  out  here 
and  be  slowly  assassinated." 

And  she  went  in,  rather  hastily,  calling  to  him  ta 
close  the  screen  door. 

Quarren  glanced  around  the  deserted  drawing-room. 
Through  the  bay-window  late  afternoon  sunlight 
poured  flooding  the  room  with  a  ruddy  glory. 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  enough  of  this  celestial  radi 
ance  to  make  a  new  aureole  for  you  ?  "  he  said. 

227 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  So  my  old  one  is  worn  out,  is  it?  " 

"  I  meant  to  offer  you  a  double  halo." 

"  You  do  say  sweet  things — for  a  rather  obstinate 
young  man,"  she  said,  flashing  a  laughing  side  glance 
at  him.  Then  she  walked  slowly  through  the  sunshine 
into  the  dimmer  music-room,  and  found  a  seat  at  the 
piano.  Her  mood  changed ;  she  became  gay,  capricious, 
even  a  trifle  imperative: 

"  Please  lean  on  the  piano."     He  did  so,  inquiringly. 

"  Otherwise,"  she  said,  "  you'd  have  attempted  to 
seat  yourself  on  this  bench;  and  there  isn't  room  for 
both  of  us  without  crowding." 

"  If  you  moved  a  little " 

"  But  I  won't,"  she  said  serenely,  and  dropped  her 
slim  hands  on  the  key-board. 

She  sang  one  or  two  modern  songs,  and  he  took 
second  part  in  a  pleasant,  careless,  but  acceptable 
barytone. 

"  The  old  ones  are  the  best,"  she  commented,  run 
ning  lightly  through  a  medley  ranging  from  "  The 
Mikado"  to  "Erminie,"  the  "Black  Hussar,"  and  "The 
Mascotte."  They  sang  the  "gobble  duet"  from  the 
latter  fairly  well: 

She. 

"  When  on  your  manly  form  I  gaze 
A  sense  of  pleasure  passes  o'er  me  "; 

He. 

"The  murmured  music  of  your  voice 
Is  sweeter  far  than  liquid  honey  !  " 

And  so  on  through  the  bleating  of  his  sheep  and 
the  gobbling  of  her  turkeys  until  they  could  scarcely 
sing  for  laughing. 

228 


'"The  old  ones  are  the 


,)est.'  she  commented. 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Then  the  mood  of  the  absurd  seized  her;  and  she 
made  him  sing  "  Johnny  Schmoker  "  with  her  until  they 
could  scarcely  draw  breath  for  the  eternal  refrain : 

"  Kanst  du  spielen  ?  " 

and  the  interminable  list  of  musical  instruments  so  easily 
mastered  by  that  Teutonic  musician. 

"  I  want  to  sing  you  a  section  of  one  of  those  im 
becile,  colourless,  pastel-tinted  and  very  precious  De 
bussy  things,"  she  exclaimed;  and  did  so,  wandering 
and  meandering  on  and  on  through  meaningless  mazes 
of  sound  until  he  begged  for  mercy  and  even  had  to 
stay  her  hands  on  the  key -board  with  his  own. 

She  stopped  then,  pretending  disappointment  and 
surprise. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said ;  "  you'll  have  to  match  my 
performance  with  something  equally  imbecile  " ;  and  she 
composed  herself  to  listen. 

"What  shall  I  do  that  is  sufficiently  imbecile?"  he 
asked  gravely ;  "  turn  seven  solemn  handsprings  ?  " 

"  That  isn't  silly  enough.  Roll  over  on  the  rug  and 
play  dead." 

He  prepared  to  do  so  but  she  wouldn't  permit  him : 

"  No !  I  don't  want  to  remember  you  doing  such  a 
thing.  .  .  .  All  the  same  I  believe  you  could  do  it  and 
not  lose — lose " 

"Dignity?" 

"  No — I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  Come,  Mr.  Quar- 
ren ;  I  am  waiting  for  you  to  do  something  silly." 

"Shall  I  say  it  or  do  it?" 

"Either."   * 

"  Then  I'll  recite  something  very,  very  precious — 
subtly,  intricately,  and  psychologically  precious." 

229 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Oh,  please  do  !  " 

"  It's— it's  about  a  lover." 

She  blushed. 

"Do  you  mind?" 

"  You  are  the  limit !     Of  course  I  don't !  " 

"  It's  about  a  lady,  too." 

"  Naturally." 

"  And  love — rash,  precipitate,  unwarranted,  unre 
quited,  and  fatal  love." 

"  I  can  stand  it  if  you  can,"  she  said  with  the  faint 
est  glimmer  of  malice  in  her  smile. 

"  All  right.    The  title  is :  '  Oh,  Love!    Oh,  Why?  '  " 

"  A  perfectly  good  title,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I  al- 
way  says  *  why?  '  to  Love." 

So  he  bowed  to  her  and  began  very  seriously : 

<(  Oh,  Lover  in  haste,  beware  of  Fate  ! 
Wait  for  a  moment  while  I  relate 
A  harrowing  tragedy  up  to  date 
Of  innate  Hate. 

<e  A  maiden  rocked  on  her  rocking-chair  ; 
Her  store-curls  stirred  in  the  summer  air ; 
An  amorous  Fly  espied  her  there, 
So  rare  and  fair. 

"  Before  she  knew  where  she  was  at, 
He'd  kissed  the  maiden  where  she  sat, 
And  she  batted  him  one  which  slapped  him  flat 
Ker-spat !     Like  that ! 

"  Oh,  Life  !     Oh,  Death  !     Oh,  swat-iii-the-eye ! 
Beyond  the  Bournes  of  the  By-arid- By, 
Spattered  the  soul  of  that  amorous  Fly. 
Oh,  Love  !     Oh,  Why  ?  " 
230 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

She  pretended  to  be  overcome  by  the  tragic  pathos 
of  the  poem : 

"  I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  protested ;  "  I  can't  endure 
the  realism  of  that  spattered  soul.  Why  not  let  her 
wave  him  away  and  have  him  plunge  headlong  onto  a 
sheet  of  fly-paper  and  die  a  buzzing  martyr?  " 

Then,  swift  as  a  weather-vane  swinging  from  north 
to  south  her  mood  changed  once  more  and  softened ;  and 
her  fingers  again  began  idling  among  the  keys,  striking 
vague  harmonies. 

He  came  across  the  room  and  stood  looking  down 
over  her  shoulder ;  and  after  a  moment  her  hands  ceased 
stirring,  fell  inert  on  the  keys. 

A  single  red  shaft  of  light  slanted  on  the  wall.  It 
faded  out  to  pink,  lingered ;  and  then  the  gray  evening 
shadows  covered  it.  The  world  outside  was  very  still; 
the  room  was  stiller,  save  for  her  heart,  which  only  she 
could  hear,  rapid,  persistent,  beating  the  reveille. 

She  heard  it  and  sat  motionless ;  every  nerve  in  her 
was  sounding  the  alarm;  every  breath  repeated  the 
prophecy ;  and  she  did  not  stir,  even  when  his  arm  en 
circled  her.  Her  head,  fallen  partly  back,  rested  a  mo 
ment  against  his  shoulder :  she  met  his  light  caress  with 
unresponsive  lips  and  eyes  that  looked  up  blindly  into 
his. 

Then  her  face  burned  scarlet  and  she  sprang  up, 
retreating  as  he  caught  her  slender  hand: 

"  No  ! — please.  Let  me  go  !  This  is  too  serious — 
even  if  we  did  not  mean  it " 

"  You  know  I  mean  it,"  he  said  simply. 

"  You  must  not !  You  understand  why !  .  .  .  And 
don't — again  !  I  am  not — I  do  not  choose  to — to  allow 

— endure — such — things " 

231 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

He  still  held  her  by  one  hand  and  she  stood  twist 
ing  at  it  and  looking  at  him  with  cheeks  still  crimson 
and  eyes  still  a  little  dazed. 

"  Please  !  "  she  repeated — and  "  please  !  "  And  she 
came  toward  him  a  step,  and  laid  her  other  hand  over 
the  one  that  still  held  hers. 

"Won't  you  be  kind  to  me?"  she  said  under  her 
breath.  "  Be  kind  to  me — and  let  me  go." 

"Am  I  unkind?" 

"  Yes — yes  !  You  know — you  know  how  it  is  with 
me !  Let  me  go  my  way.  ...  I  am  going  anyhow !  " 
she  added  fiercely ;  "  you  can't  check  me — not  for  one 
moment !  " 

"  Check  you  from  what,  Strelsa?  " 

"  From — what  I  want  out  of  life  ! — tranquillity, 
ease,  security,  happiness " 

"Happiness?" 

"  Yes — yes  !  It  will  be  that !  I  don't  need  anything 
except  what  I  shall  have.  I  don't  want  anything  else. 
Can't  you  understand?  Do  you  think  women  feel  as — 
as  men  do?  Do  you  think  the  kind  of  love  that  men 
experience  is  also  experienced  by  women  ?  I  don't  want 
it ;  I  don't  require  it !  I've — I've  always  had  a  contempt 
for  it — and  I  have  still.  .  .  .  Anyway  I  have  offered 
you  the  best  that  is  in  me  to  offer  any  man — friend 
ship.  That  is  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  love.  Why 
can't  you  take  it — and  let  me  alone !  What  is  it  to  you 
if  I  marry  and  find  security  and  comfort  and  quiet 
and  protection,  as  long  as  I  give  you  my  friendship — 
as  long  as  I  never  swerve  in  it — as  long  as  I  hold 
you  first  among  my  friends — first  among  men  if  you 
wish !  More  I  cannot  offer  you — I  will  not !  Now  let 
me  go !  " 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Your  other  self,  fighting  me,"  he  said,  half  to  him 
self. 

"  No,  7  am !  What  do  you  mean  by  my  other  self ! 
There  is  no  other " 

"  Its  lips  rested  on  mine  for  a  moment !  " 

She  blushed  scarlet: 

"  Is  that  what  you  mean ! — the  stupid,  unworthy, 
material  self " 

"  The  trinity  is  incomplete  without  it." 

She  wrenched  her  hand  free,  and  stood  staring  at 
him  breathing  unevenly  as  though  frightened. 

After  a  moment  he  began  to  pace  the  floor,  hands 
dropped  into  his  coat  pockets,  his  teeth  worrying  his 
under  lip: 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  up,"  he  said.  "  I  love 
you.  Whatever  is  lacking  in  you  makes  no  difference 
to  me.  My  being  poor  and  your  being  poor  makes  no 
difference  either.  I  simply  don't  care — I  don't  even 
care  what  you  think  about  it.  Because  I  know  that  we 
will  be  worth  it  to  each  other — whether  you  think  so  or 
not.  And  you  evidently  don't,  but  I  can't  help  that. 
If  I'm  any  good  I'll  make  you  think  as  I  do " 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  came  straight  up  to  her, 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  then,  releasing  her, 
turned  toward  the  window,  his  brows  slightly  knitted. 

Through  the  panes  poured  the  sunset  flood,  bathing 
him  from  head  to  foot  in  ruddy  light.  He  stared  into 
the  red  West  and  the  muscles  tightened  under  his 
cheeks. 

"  Can't  you  care?  "  he  said,  half  to  himself. 

She  stood  dumb,  still  cold  and  rigid  with  repulsion 
from  the  swift  and  almost  brutal  contact.  That  time 
nothing  in  her  had  responded.  Vaguely  she  felt  that 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

what  had  been  there  was  now  dead — that  she  never 
could  respond  again ;  that,  from  the  lesser  emotions,  she 
was  clean  and  free  forever. 

"  Can't  you  care  for  a  man  who  loves  you,  Strelsa  ?  " 
he  said  again,  turning  toward  her. 

"  Is  that  your  idea  of  love?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  hopelessly : 

"  Oh,  it's  everything  else,  too — everything  on  earth 
— and  afterward — everything — mind,  soul  and  body — 
birth,  life,  death — sky  and  land  and  sea — everything 
that  is  or  was  or  will  be " 

His  hands  clenched,  relaxed ;  he  made  a  gesture,  half 
checked — looked  up  at  her,  looked  long  and  steadily 
into  her  expressionless  eyes. 

"  You  care  for  money,  position,  ease,  security, 
tranquillity — more  than  for  love ;  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"  Yes.  Because,  unless  you  mean  friendship,  I  care 
nothing  for  love." 

"  That  is  your  answer." 

"  It  is." 

"  Then  there  is  something  lacking  in  you." 

"  Perhaps.  I  have  never  loved  in  the  manner  you 
mean.  I  do  not  wish  to.  Perhaps  I  am  incapable  of  it. 
...  I  hope  I  am ;  I  believe — I  believe — "  But  she  fell 
silent,  standing  with  eyes  lowered  and  the  warm  blood 
once  more  stinging  her  cheeks. 

Presently  she  looked  up,  calm,  level-eyed : 

"  I  think  you  had  better  ask  my  forgiveness  before 
you  go." 

He  shrugged: 

"  Yes,  I'll  ask  it  if  you  like." 
234 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

To  keep  her  composure  became  difficult: 

"  It  is  your  affair,  Mr.  Quarren — if  you  still  care 
to  preserve  our  friendship." 

"  Would  a  kiss  shatter  it?  " 

She  smiled: 

"A  look,  a  word,  the  quiver  of  an  eyelash  is  enough." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  solidly  founded,  does  it?  " 

"  Friendship  is  the  frailest  thing  in  the  world — and 
the  mightiest.  ...  I  am  waiting  for  your  decision." 

He  walked  up  to  her  again,  and  she  steeled  herself, 
not  knowing  what  to  expect. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Strelsa?  " 

"  No." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  have  told  Mr.  Sprowl  that  I  will  marry 
him." 

"Also  because  you  don't  love  me;  is  that  so?" 

She  said  tranquilly :  "  I  can't  afford  to  marry  you. 
I  wouldn't  love  you  anyway." 

"Couldn't?" 

"  Wouldn't,"  she  said  calmly ;  but  her  face  was 
crimson. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  under  his  breath — "  you  are  capable 
of  love." 

"  I  think  not,  Mr.  Quarren ;  but  I  am  very  capable 
of  hate." 

And,  looking  up,  he  saw  it  for  an  instant,  clear  in 
her  eyes.  Then  it  died  out ;  she  turned  a  trifle  pale, 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  leaning  against  it,  one 
hand  on  the  curtain. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him  when  he  came  up  be 
hind  her,  and  he  touched  her  lightly  on  the  arm : 

"  I  ask  your  forgiveness,"  he  said. 
235 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  is  granted,  Mr.  Quarren." 

"  Have  I  ruined  our  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  have  done,"  she  said 
wearily. 

A  few  moments  later  the  motor  arrived;  Quarren 
turned  on  the  electric  lights  in  the  room ;  Strelsa  walked 
across  to  the  piano  and  seated  herself. 

She  was  playing  rag-time  when  the  motor  party 
entered;  Quarren  came  forward  and  shook  hands  with 
Chrysos  Lacy  and  Sir  Charles ;  Langly  Sprowl  passed 
him  with  a  short  nod,  saying  "  How  are  you,  Quarren?  " 
— ajid  kept  straight  on  to  Strelsa. 

"  Rotten  luck,"  he  said  in  his  full,  careless  voice ; 
"  I'd  meant  to  ride  over  and  chance  a  gallop  with  you 
but  Wycherly  picked  me  up  and  started  on  one  of  his 
break-neck  tears.  .  .  .  What  have  you  been  up  to  all 
day?" 

"  Nothing — Mr.  Quarren  came." 

"  I  see — showed  him  about,  I  expect." 

"  A— little." 

"  Are  you  feeling  fit,  Strelsa?  " 

"Perfectly.   .   .   .  Why?" 

"  You  look  a  bit  streaky " 

"  Thank  you !  " 

"  Ton  my  word  you  do — a  bit  under  the  weather, 
you  know " 

"  Woman's  only  friend  and  protector — a  headache," 
she  said,  gaily  rattling  off  more  rag-time.  "  Where  did 
you  go,  Langly?" 

"  To  look  over  some  silly  horses '? 

"  They're  fine  nags  !  "  remonstrated  Molly — "  and  I 
was  perfectly  sure  that  Langly  would  buy  half  a  dozen." 

"  Not  I,"  said  that  hatchet-faced  young  man ;  and 
236 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

into  his  sleek  and  restless  features  came  a  glimmer  of 
shrewdness — the  sly  thrift  that  lurks  in  the  faces  of 
those  who  bargain  much  and  wisely  in  petty  wares.  It 
must  have  been  a  momentary  ancestral  gleam  from  his 
rum-smuggling  ancestors,  for  Langly  Sprowl  had  never 
dealt  in  little  things. 

Chrysos  Lacy  was  saying :  "  It's  adorable  to  see  you 
again,  Ricky.  What  is  this  we  hear  about  you  and 
Lord  Dankmere  setting  up  shop  ?  " 

"  It's  true,"  he  laughed.  "  Come  in  and  buy  an  old 
master,  Chrysos,  at  bargain  prices." 

"  I  shall  insist  on  Jim  buying  several,"  said  Molly. 

Her  husband  laughed  derisively : 

"  When  I  can  buy  a  perfectly  good  Wright  biplane 
for  the  same  money  ?  Come  to  earth,  Molly  !  " 

"  You'll  come  to  earth  if  you  go  sky-skating  around 
the  clouds  in  that  horrid  little  Stinger,  Jim,"  she  said. 
"  Why  couldn't  you  take  out  the  Stinger  for  a  little  ex 
ercise?  " — turning  to  Sprowl. 

"  I'm  going  to,"  said  Sprowl  in  his  full  penetrating 
voice,  not  conscious  that  it  required  courage  to  risk  a. 
flight  with  the  Stinger.  Nobody  had  ever  imputed  any 
lack  of  that  sort  of  courage  to  Langly  Sprowl.  He  sim- 
ply  did  not  understand  bodily  fear. 

Strelsa  glanced  up  at  him  from  the  piano : 

"  It's  rather  risky,  isn't  it?  " 

He  merely  stared  at  her  out  of  his  slightly  protrud 
ing  eyes  as  though  she  were  speaking  an  unfamiliar 
language. 

"  Jim,"  said  Quarren,  "  would  you  mind  taking  me 
as  a  passenger?  " 

Wycherly,  reckless  enough  anyway,  balked  a  little 
at  the  proposition : 

237 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  That  Stinger  is  too  light  and  too  tricky  I'm 
afraid." 

"Isn't  she  built  for  two?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  she  could  get  off  the  ground  with 
you  and  me — 

"All  right;  let's  try  her?" 

"  Jim !     I  won't  let  you,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Molly.  Rix  and  I  are  not  going 
up  if  she  won't  take  us " 

"  I  forbid  you  to  try  !    It's  senseless  !  " 

Her  husband  laughed  and  finished  his  whisky  and 
soda.  Then  twirling  his  motor  goggles  around  his 
fingers  he  stood  looking  at  Strelsa. 

"  You're  a  pretty  little  peach,"  he  said  sentiment 
ally,  "  and  I'm  sorry  Molly  is  here  or 

"  Do  you  care  ?  "  laughed  Strelsa,  looking  around  at 
him  over  her  shoulder.  "  /  don't  mind  being  adored  by 
you,  Jim." 

"  Don't  you,  sweetness  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  don't." 

Wycherly  started  toward  her:  Langly  Sprowl,  who 
neither  indulged  in  badinage  nor  comprehended  it  in 
others,  turned  a  perfectly  expressionless  face  on  his  host, 
who  said: 

"  You  old  muffin  head,  did  you  ever  smile  in  your 
life?  You'd  better  try  now  because  I'm  going  to  take 
your  best  girl  away  from  you !  " 

Which  bored  Sprowl ;  and  he  turned  his  lean,  narrow 
head  away  as  a  sleek  and  sinister  dog  turns  when  laughed 
at. 

Strelsa  slipped  clear  of  the  piano  and  vanished, 
chased  heavily  by  Wycherly. 

Molly  said :  "  It's  time  to  dress,  good  people. 
238 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Langly,  your  man  is  upstairs  with  your  outfit.  Come, 
Chrysos,  dear — Rix,  have  you  everything  you  want?" 
she  added  in  a  low  voice  as  he  stood  aside  for  her  to 
pass:  "Have  you  everything,  Ricky?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  said. 

"  The  little  minx !     Is  it  Langly?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear  !  "  And,  aloud :  "  Jim  !  Do  let 
Langly  try  out  the  Stinger  to-morrow." 

Her  husband,  who  had  given  up  his  search  for 
Strelsa,  said  that  Sprowl  was  welcome. 

People  scattered  to  their  respective  quarters ;  Quar- 
ren  walked  slowly  to  his.  Sprowl,  passing  with  his  minc 
ing,  nervous  stride,  said :  "  How's  little  Dankmere  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  replied  Quarren  briefly. 

"  Cheap  little  beggar,"  commented  Sprowl. 

"  He  happens  to  be  my  partner,"  said  the  other. 

"  He  suits  your  business  no  doubt,"  said  Sprowl  with 
a  contempt  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal — a  contempt 
which  very  plainly  included  Quarren  as  well  as  the  Earl 
and  the  picture  business. 

Arrived  at  his  door  he  glanced  around  to  stare  ab 
sently  at  Quarren.  The  latter  said,  pleasantly: 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  meant  to  be  offensive,  Sprowl ; 
you  simply  can't  help  it ;  can  you  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  I  mean,  you  can't  help  being  a  bounder.  It's  just 
in  you,  isn't  it?  " 

For  a  moment  Sprowl's  hatchet  face  was  ghastly; 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  twice,  then  jerked  open 
his  door  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    X 

QUARREN  had  been  at  Witch-Hollow  three  days 
when  Dankmere  called  him  on  the  long-distance  tele 
phone. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  come  back?  "  asked  the  young 
fellow.  "  I  don't  mind  if  you  do ;  I'm  quite  ready  to 
return " 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  chap,"  said  his  lordship.  "  I 
fancied  you  might  care  to  hear  how  matters  are  going  in 
the  Dankmere  Galleries." 

"  Of  course  I  do,  but  I  rather  hoped  nothing  in  par 
ticular  would  happen  for  a  week  or  so " 

"  Plenty  has.  You  know  those  experts  of  yours, 
Valasco,  Drayton-Quinn,  and  that  Hollander  Van 
Boschoven.  Well,  they  don't  get  on.  Each  has  come  to 
me  privately,  and  in  turn,  and  told  me  that  the  others 
were  no  good " 

"  Your  role  is  to  remain  amiable  and  non-committal," 
said  Quarren.  "  Let  them  talk " 

"  Valasco  and  Drayton-Quinn  won't  speak,  and  Van 
Boschoven  has  notified  me  that  he  declines  to  come  to 
the  house  as  long  as  either  of  the  others  are  there." 

"  Very  well ;  arrange  to  have  them  there  on  different 
days." 

"  I  don't  think  Valasco  will  come  back  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

240 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Because — the  fact  is — I  believe  I  practically — so 
to  speak — hit  him." 

"What!" 

"  Fact,  old  chap." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  he  asked  me  if  I  knew  more  about  anything 
than  I  did  about  pictures.  I  didn't  catch  his  drift  for 
about  an  hour — but  then  it  came  to  me,  and  I  got  up 
out  of  my  chair  and  walked  over  and  punched  his  head. 
I  don't  think  he'll  come  back,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  else  have  yon  been  doing?  " 
said  Quarren  angrily. 

"  Nothing.  One  picture — the  Raeburn  portrait — 
has  a  bad  hole  in  it." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"  Rather  extraordinary  thing,  that !  I  was  giving 
a  most  respectable  card  party — some  ladies  and  gentle 
men  of  sorts — from  the  Winter  Garden  I  believe — and 
one  of  the  ladies  inadvertently  shyed  a  glass  at  another 
lady- 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Dankmere — 

"  Quite  right  old  chap — my  fault  entirely — I  won't 
do  it  again.  But,  do  you  know,  the  gallery  already  has 
become  a  most  popular  resort.  People  are  coming  and 
going  all  day — a  lot  of  dealers  among  them  I  suspect — 
and  there  have  been  a  number  of  theatrical  people  who 
want  to  hire  pictures  for  certain  productions  to  be 
staged  next  winter — 

"  We  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing !  " 

"  That's  what  I  thought ;  but  there  was  one  very 
fetching  girl  who  opens  in  '  Ancestors  '  next  Octo- 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Right-o !  I'll  tell  her  at  luncheon.  ...  I  say, 
Quarren ;  Karl  Westguard  wants  the  gallery  to-night. 
May  I  let  him  have  it?  " 

"Certainly.    What  for?  " 

"  Oh,  some  idea  of  his — I've  forgotten  what  he  said." 

"  I  believe  I'd  better  come  down,"  said  Quarren 
bluntly. 

"  Don't  dream  of  it,  old  fellow.  Everything  is  do 
ing  nicely.  My  respects  to  the  fair.  By-the-bye — any 
thing  in  my  line  up  there?  " 

Quarren  laughed: 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Dankmere." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Earl,  airily.  "  I'm  not  worry 
ing  now,  you  know.  Good-bye,  old  sport !  " 

And  he  rang  off. 

Quarren  meeting  Molly  in  the  hall  said : 

"  I  think  I'd  better  leave  this  afternoon.  Dankmere 
is  messing  matters." 

"Are  you  going  to  run  away?"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  glancing  sideways  at  Strelsa  who  had  just  passed 
them  wearing  her  riding  habit. 

"  Run  away,"  he  repeated,  also  lowering  his  voice. 
"From  whom?" 

"  From  Langly  Sprowl." 

He  shrugged  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  It  is  running  away,"  insisted  his  pretty  hostess. 
"  You  have  a  chance  I  think." 

"  Not  the  slightest." 

"  You  are  wrong.  Strelsa  wept  in  her  sleep  all 
night.  How  does  that  strike  you  ?  " 

"  Not  over  me,"  he  said  grimly ;  but  added :  "  How 
do  you  know  she  did?  " 

"  Her    maid    told    mine,"    admitted    Molly    shame- 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

lessly.  "  Now  if  you  are  going  to  criticise  my  chan 
nels  of  information  I'll  remind  you  that  Richelieu 
himself " 

"  Oh,  Molly !  Molly !  What  a  funny  girl  you 
are !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  You're  a  sweet,  loyal  little 
thing,  too — but  there's  no  use — "  His  face  became  ex 
pressionless,  almost  haggard — "  there's  no  use,"  he  re 
peated  under  his  breath. 

Slowly,  side  by  side,  they  walked  out  to  the  veranda, 
her  hand  resting  lightly  just  within  the  crook  of  his 
arm,  he,  absent-mindedly  filling  his  pipe. 

"  Strelsa  likes  you,"  she  said. 

"  With  all  the  ardour  and  devotion  of  a  fish,"  he 
returned,  coolly. 

"Rix?" 

"What?" 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Molly,  thoughtfully,  "  she  is 
a  sort  of  a  fish.  She  has  the  emotions  of  a  mollusc  as 
far  as  your  sex  is  concerned.  Some  women  are  that  way 
— more  women  than  men  would  care  to  believe.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know,  Ricky,  if  you'll  let  us  alone,  it  is  quite  natural 
for  us  to  remain  indifferent  to  considerations  of  that 
sort?" 

She  stood  watching  the  young  fellow  busy  with  his 
pipe. 

"  It's  only  when  you  keep  at  us  long  enough  that 
we  respond,"  she  said.  "  Some  of  us  are  quickly  re 
sponsive  ;  it  takes  many  of  us  a  long  while  to  catch  fire. 
Threatened  emotion  instinctively  repels  many  of  us — 
the  more  fastidious  among  us,  the  finer  grained  and 
more  delicately  nerved,  are  essentially  reserved.  Mod 
esty,  pride,  a  natural  aloofness,  are  as  much  a  part  of 

many  women  as  their  noses  and  fingers " 

243 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  What  becomes  of  modesty  and  pride  when  a  girl 
marries  for  money  ?  "  he  asked  coolly. 

"  Some  women  can  give  and  accept  in  cold  blood 
what  it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  accord  to  a 
more  intimate  and  emotional  demand." 

"  No  doubt  an  ethical  distinction,"  he  said,  "  but 
not  very  clear  to  me." 

"  I  did  not  argue  that  such  women  are  admirable  or 
excusable.  .  .  .  But  how  many  modern  marriages  in 
our  particular  vicinity  are  marriages  of  inclination, 
Ricky?" 

"  You're  a  washed-out  lot,"  he  said — "  you're  sa 
tiated  as  schoolgirls.  If  you  have  any  emotions  left 
they're  twisted  ones  by  the  time  you  are  introduced. 
Most  debutantes  of  your  sort  make  their  bow  equipped 
for  business,  and  with  the  experience  of  what,  practi 
cally,  has  amounted  to  several  seasons. 

"  If  any  old-fashioned  young  girls  remain  in  your 
orbit  I  don't  know  wThere  to  find  them.  Why,  do  you 
suppose  any  young  girl,  not  yet  out,  would  bother  to  go 
to  a  party  of  any  sort  where  there  was  not  champagne 
and  a  theatre-box  and  a  supper  in  prospect?  That's  a 
fine  comment  on  your  children,  Molly,  but  you  know  it's 
true  and  so  does  everybody  who  pretends  to  know  any 
thing  about  it." 

"  You  talk  like  Karl  Westguard,"  she  said,  laugh 
ing.  "  Anyway,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  you  and 
Strelsa  Leeds?" 

"  Nothing."  He  shrugged.  "  She  is  part  of  your 
last  word  in  social  civilisation " 

"  She  is  a  very  normal,  sensitive,  proud  girl,  who  has 
known  little  except  unhappiness  all  her  life,  Rix — in 
cluding  two  years  of  marital  misery — two  years  of 

244 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

horror. — And  you  forget  that  those  two  years  were  the 
result  of  a  demand  purely  and  brutally  emotional — to 
which,  a  novice,  utterly  ignorant,  she  yielded — pushed 
on  by  her  mother.  .  .  .  Please  be  fair  to  her ;  remember 
that  her  childhood  was  pinched  with  poverty,  that  her 
girlhood  in  school  was  a  lonely  one,  embarrassed  by  lack 
of  everything  which  her  fashionable  schoolmates  had 
as  matters  of  course. 

"  She  could  not  go  to  the  homes  of  her  schoolmates 
in  vacation  times,  because  she  could  not  ask  them,  in 
turn,  to  her  own.  She  was  still  in  school  when  Reggie 
Leeds  saw  her — and  misbehaved — and  the  poor  little 
thing  was  sent  home,  guiltless  but  already  half-damned. 
No  wonder  her  mother  chased  Reggie  Leeds  half  around 
the  world  dragging  her  daughter  by  the  wrist !  " 

"  Did  it  make  matters  any  better  to  force  that 
drunken  cad  into  a  marriage?  "  asked  Quarren  coldly. 

"It  makes  another  marriage  possible  for  Strelsa." 

Quarren  gazed  out  across  the  country  where  a  fine 
misty  rain  was  still  falling.  Acres  of  clover  stretched 
away  silvered  with  powdery  moisture;  robins  and  blue 
birds  covered  the  soaked  lawns,  and  their  excited  call- 
notes  prophesied  blue  skies. 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  one  way  or  the 
other,"  said  Quarren,  half  to  himself.  "  She  will  go  on 
in  the  predestined  orbit " 

"  Not  if  a  stronger  body  pulls  her  out  of  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  which  she  responds — except 
what  I  have  not." 

"  Make  what  you  do  possess  more  powerful,  then." 

"What  do  I  possess?" 

"  Kindness.      And    also    manhood,    Ricky.       Don't 


you?" 


245 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Perhaps  so — now — after  a  fashion.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
not  the  man  who  could  ever  attract  her " 

"  Wake  her,  and  find  out." 

"Wake  her?" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  many  of  us  are  asleep, 
and  that  few  of  us  awake  easily?  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that  nobody  likes  to  be  awakened  from  the  warm 
comfort  and  idle  security  of  emotionless  slumber? — 
that  it  is  the  instinct  of  many  of  us  to  resist — just 
as  I  hear  my  maid  speak  to  me  in  the  morning 
and  then  turn  over  for  another  forty  winks,  hating 
her!" 

They  both  laughed. 

"  My  maid  has  instructions  to  persist  until  I  re 
spond,"  said  Molly.  "  Those  are  my  instructions  to 
you,  also." 

"  Suppose,  after  all,  I  were  knocking  at  the  door  of 
an  empty  room?  " 

"  You  must  take  your  chances  of  course." 

There  was  a  noise  of  horses  on  the  gravel:  Langly 
cantered  up  on  a  handsome  hunter  followed  by  a 
mounted  groom  leading  Strelsa's  mare. 

Sprowl  dismounted  and  came  up  to  pay  his  respects 
to  Molly,  scarcely  troubling  himself  to  recognise  Quar- 
ren's  presence,  and  turning  his  back  to  him  immediately, 
although  Molly  twice  attempted  to  include  him  in  the 
conversation. 

Strelsa  in  the  library,  pulling  on  her  gloves,  was 
silent  witness  to  a  pantomime  unmistakable;  but  her 
pretty  lips  merely  pressed  each  other  tighter,  and  she 
sauntered  out,  crop  under  one  arm,  with  a  careless  greet 
ing  to  Langly. 

He  came  up  offering  his  hand  and  she  took  it,  then 


"Strelsa  in  the  library,  pulling  on  her  gloves,  was  silent  witness 
to  a  pantomime  unmistakable.'  '  ~     T 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

stood  a  moment  in  desultory  conversation,  facing  the 
others  so  as  to  include  Quarren. 

"  I  thought  I  overheard  you  say  to  Molly  that  you 
were  going  back  to  town  this  afternoon,"  she  remarked, 
casting  a  brief  glance  in  his  direction. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  go,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

"A  matter  of  business  I  suppose?"  eyebrows 
slightly  lifted. 

"  In  a  way.     Dankmere  is  alone,  poor  fellow." 

Molly  laughed: 

"  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone." 

Sprowl  said: 

"  There's  a  housemaid  in  my  employ — she's  saved 
something  I  understand.  You  might  notify  Dank- 
mere — "  he  half  wheeled  toward  Quarren,  eyes  slightly 
bulging  without  a  shadow  of  expression  on  his  sleek, 
narrow  face. 

Molly  flushed;  Quarren  glanced  at  Sprowl,  amazed 
at  his  insolence  out  of  a  clear  sky. 

"  What?  "  he  said  slowly — then  stepped  back  a  pace 
as  Strelsa  passed  close  in  front  of  him,  apparently  per 
fectly  unconscious  of  any  discord: 

"  Will  you  get  me  a  lump  of  sugar,  Mr.  Quarren  ? 
My  mare  must  be  pampered  or  she'll  start  that  jiggling 
Kentucky  amble  and  never  walk  one  step." 

Quarren  swung  on  his  heel  and  entered  the  house ; 
Molly,  ignoring  Strelsa,  turned  sharply  on  Sprowl: 

"  If  you  are  insolent  to  my  guests  you  need  not  come 
here,"  she  said  briefly. 

Langly's  restless  eyes  protruded;  he  glanced  from 
Molly  to  Strelsa,  then  his  indifferent  gaze  wandered  over 
the  landscape.  It  was  plain  that  the  rebuke  had  not 
made  the  slightest  impression.  Molly  looked  angrily  at 

247 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Strelsa,  but  the  latter,  eyes  averted,  was  ga/ing  at  her 
horse.  And  when  Quarren  came  back  with  a  handful  of 
sugar  she  took  it  and,  descending  the  steps,  fed  it,  lump 
by  lump  to  the  two  horses. 

Langly  put  her  up,  shouldered  aside  the  groom,  and 
adjusted  heel-loop  and  habit-loop.  Then  he  mounted, 
saluted  Molly  and  followed  Strelsa  at  a  canter  without 
even  noticing  his  bridle. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  Langly  ?  "  asked  Molly. 

"  Characterised  his  bad  manners  the  other  day.  It 
wasn't  worth  while;  there's  no  money  in  cursing.  .  .  . 
And  I  think,  Molly  dear,  that  I'll  take  an  afternoon 
train " 

"  I  won't  let  you,"  said  his  hostess.  "  I  won't  have 
you  treated  that  way  under  my  roof 

"  It  was  outdoors,  dear  lady,"  said  Quarren,  smil 
ing.  "  It's  only  his  rudeness  before  you  that  I  mind. 
Where  is  Sir  Charles?" 

"  Off  with  Chrysos  somewhere  on  the  river — there's 
their  motor-launch,  now.  .  .  .  Ricky !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  angry  all  through.  .  .  .  Strelsa  might  have 
said  something — showed  her  lack  of  sympathy  for 
Langly's  remark  by  being  a  little  more  cordial  to  you. 
...  I  don't  like  it  in  her.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am 
going  to  like  that  girl  or  not— " 

"  Nonsense.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  say  or 
do " 

"  There  was !  She  is  a  fish ! — unless  she  gives 
Langly  the  dickens  this  morning.  .  .  .  Will  you  motor 
with  Jim  and  me,  Ricky  dear?  " 

"  If  you  like." 

She  did  like.  So  presently  a  racing  car  was  brought 
248 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

around,  Jim  came  reluctantly  from  the  hangar,  and 
away  they  tore  into  the  dull  weather  now  faintly  illu 
minated  by  the  prophecy  of  the  sun. 

Everywhere  the  mist  was  turning  golden;  faint 
smears  of  blue  appeared  and  disappeared  through  the 
vapours  passing  overhead.  Then,  all  at  once  the  sun's 
glaring  lens  played  across  the  drenched  meadows,  and 
the  shadows  of  tree  and  hedge  and  standing  cattle 
streamed  out  across  the  herbage. 

In  spite  of  the  chains  the  car  skidded  dangerously 
at  times;  mud  flew  and  so  did  water,  and  very  soon 
Molly  had  enough.  So  they  tore  back  again  to  the 
house,  Molly  to  change  her  muddy  clothes  and  write 
letters,  her  husband  to  return  to  his  beloved  Stinger, 
Quarren  to  put  on  a  pair  of  stout  shoes  and  heather 
spats  and  go  wandering  off  cross-lots — past  woodlands 
still  dripping  with  golden  rain  from  every  leaf,  past  tiny 
streams  swollen  amber  where  mint  and  scented  grasses 
swayed  half  immersed ;  past  hedge  and  orchard  and  wild 
tangles  ringing  with  bird  music — past  fields  of  young 
crops  of  every  kind  washed  green  and  fresh  above  the 
soaking  brown  earth. 

Swallows  settled  on  the  wet  road  around  every 
puddle;  bluebirds  fluttered  among  the  fruit  trees;  the 
strident  battle  note  of  the  kingbird  was  heard,  the  un 
lovely  call  of  passing  grackle,  the  loud  enthusiasm  of 
nesting  robins.  Everywhere  a  rain-cleansed  world  re 
sounded  with  the  noises  of  lesser  life,  flashed  with  its 
colour  in  a  million  blossoms  and  in  the  delicately  bril 
liant  wings  hovering  over  them. 

Far  away  he  could  see  the  river  and  the  launch,  too, 
where  Sir  Charles  and  Chrysos  Lacy  were  circling  hither 
ind  thither  at  full  speed.  Once,  across  a  distant  hill, 

249 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

two  horses  and  their  riders  passed  outlined  against  the 
sky ;  but  even  the  eyes  of  a  lover  and  a  hater  could  not 
identify  anybody  at  such  a  distance. 

So  he  strolled  on,  taking  roads  when  convenient, 
fields  when  it  suited  him,  neither  knowing  nor  caring 
where  he  was  going. 

Avoiding  a  big  house  amid  brand-new  and  very 
showy  landscape  effects  he  turned  aside  into  a  pretty 
strip  of  woods ;  and  presently  came  to  a  little  foot 
bridge  over  a  stream. 

A  man  sat  there,  reading,  and  as  Quarren  passed, 
he  looked  up. 

"  Is  that  you,  Quarren?  "  he  said. 

The  young  fellow  stopped  and  looked  down  curi 
ously  at  the  sunken,  unhealthy  face,  then,  shocked,  came 
forward  hastily  and  shook  hands. 

"  Why,  Ledwith,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here? — Oh,  I  forgot;  you  live  here,  don't  you?  " 

"  That's  my  house  yonder — or  was,"  said  the  man 
with  a  slight  motion  of  his  head.  And,  after  a  moment : 
"  You  didn't  recognise  me.  Have  I  changed  much?  " 

Quarren  said:  "  You  seem  to  have  been — ill." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  been.  I'm  ill,  all  right.  .  .  .  Will 
you  have  a  seat  for  a  few  minutes — unless  you  are  going 
somewhere  in  particular — or  don't  care  to  talk  to 
me " 

"  Thank  you."  Quarren  seated  himself.  It  was  his 
instinct  to  be  gentle — even  with  such  a  man. 

"  I  haven't  seen  much  of  you,  for  a  couple  of  years 
— I  haven't  seen  much  of  anybody,"  said  Ledwith,  turn 
ing  the  pages  of  his  book  without  looking  at  them. 
Then,  furtively,  his  sunken  eyes  rested  a  moment  on 
Quarren : 

-        250 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You  are  stopping  with " 

"  The  Wycherlys." 

"  Oh,  yes.  ...  I  haven't  seen  them  lately.  .  .  . 
They  are  neighbours  " — he  waved  his  sickly  coloured 
hand — "  but  I'm  rather  quiet — I  read  a  good  deal — as 
you  see  " — He  moistened  his  bluish  lips  every  few  mo 
ments,  and  his  nose  seemed  to  annoy  him,  too,  for  he 
rubbed  it  continually. 

"  It's  a  pretty  country,"  said  Quarren. 

"  Yes — I  thought  so  once.  I  built  that  house.  .  .  . 
There's  no  use  in  my  keeping  up  social  duties,"  he  said 
with  another  slinking  glance  at  Quarren.  "  So  I'm 
giving  up  the  house." 

"  Really." 

"  Hasn't — you  have  heard  so,  haven't  you?  " 

He  kept  twitching  his  shoulders  and  shifting  his 
place  continually,  and  his  fingers  were  never  still,  always 
at  the  leaves  of  his  book  or  rubbing  his  face  which 
seemed  to  itch;  or  he  snapped  them  nervously  and  con 
tinuously  as  he  jerked  about  in  his  seat. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  slyly,  "  people  talk  about  me, 
Quarren." 

"  Do  you  know  anybody  immune  to  gossip  ?  "  in 
quired  Quarren,  smiling. 

"  No ;  that's  true.  But  I  don't  care  anything  for 
people.  ...  I  read,  I  have  my  horses  and  dogs — but 
I'm  going  to  move  away.  I  told  you  that,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you  did." 

Ledwith  stared  at  his  book  with  lack-lustre  eyes, 
then,  almost  imperceptibly  shifted  his  gaze  craftily 
askance : 

"  There's  no  use  pretending  to  you,  Quarren ;  is 
there  ?  » 

251 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Quarren  said  nothing. 

"  You  know  all  the  gossip — all  the  dirty  little  faits 
divers  of  your  world.  And  you're  a  sort  of  doctor  and 
confidential " 

"  You're  mistaken,  Ledwith,"  he  said  pleasantly. 
"  I'm  done  with  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  I've  gone  into  a  better  business  and 
I'm  too  busy  to  be  useful  and  amusing  any  longer." 

Ledwith's  dead  eyes  stared: 

"  I  heard  you  had  dropped  out — were  never  seen 
about.  Is  that  true?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Found  the  game  too  rotten  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  It's  no  different  from  any  other  game — 
a  mixture  of  the  same  old  good  and  bad,  with  good 
predominating.  But  there's  more  to  be  had  out  of  life 
in  other  games." 

"  Yours  is  slipping  phony  pictures  to  the  public, 
with  Dankmere  working  as  side  partner,  isn't  it?  " 

Quarren  said  pleasantly :  "  If  you're  serious,  Led 
with,  you're  a  liar." 

After  a  silence  Ledwith  said :  "  Do  you  think  there's 
enough  left  of  me  to  care  what  anybody  calls  me  ?  " 

Quarren  turned :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Ledwith ;  I 
had  no  business  to  make  you  such  an  answer." 

"  Never  mind.  ...  In  that  last  year — when  I  still 
knew  people — and  when  they  still  knew  me — you  were 
very  kind  to  me,  Quarren." 

"  Why  not?     You  were  always  decent  to  me." 

Ledwith  was  now  picking  at  his  fingers,  and  Quarren 
saw  that  they  were  dreadfully  scarred  and  maltreated. 

"  You've  always  been  kind  to  me,"  repeated  Led- 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

with,  his  extinct  eyes  fixed  on  space.  "  Other  people 
would  have  halted  at  sight  of  me  and  gone  the  other 
way — or  passed  by  cutting  me  dead.  .  .  .  You  sat 
down  beside  me." 

"  Am  I  anybody  to  refuse  ?  " 

But  Ledwith  only  blinked  nervously  down  at  his 
book,  presently  fell  to  twitching  the  uncut  pages  again. 

"  Poems,"  he  said — "  scarcely  what  you'd  think  I'd 
wish  to  read,  Quarren — poems  of  youth  and  love 

"  You're  young,  Ledwith — if  you  cared  to  help 
yourself " 

"  Yes,  if  I  cared — if  I  cared.  In  this  book  they  all 
seem  to  care;  youth  and  happiness  care;  sorrow  and 
years  still  care.  Listen  to  this : 

" '  You  who  look  forward  through  the  shining  tears 

Of  April's  showers 
Into  the  sunrise  of  the  coming  years 
Golden  with  unborn  flowers — 
I  who  look  backward  where  the  sunset  lowers 
Counting  November's  hours  ! ' 

"  But — I  don't  care.     I  care  no  longer,  Quarren." 

"  That's  losing  your  grip." 

He  raised  his  ashy  visage :  "  I'm  trying  to  let  go. 
.  .  .  But  it's  slow — very  slow — with  a  little  pleasure — 
hell's  own  pleasure — "  He  turned  his  shoulder,  fished 
something  out  of  his  pocket,  and  pulling  back  his  cuff, 
bent  over.  After  a  few  moments  he  turned  around, 
calmly : 

"  You've  seen  that  on  the  stage  I  fancy." 

"  Otherwise,  also." 

"  Quite  likely.  I've  known  a  pretty  woman — "  He 
253 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ended  with  a  weary  gesture  and  dropped  his  head  be 
tween  his  hands. 

"  Quarren,"  he  said,  "  there's  only  one  hurt  left  in 
it  all.  I  have  two  little  children." 

Quarren  was  silent. 

"  I  suppose — it  won't  last — that  hurt.  They're 
with  my  mother.  It  was  agreed  that  they  should  remain 
with  her.  .  .  .  But  it's  the  only  hurt  I  feel  at  all  now — 
except — rarely — when  those  damned  June  roses  are  in 
bloom.  .  .  .  She  wore  them  a  good  deal.  .  .  .  Quarren, 
I'm  glad  it  came  early  to  me  if  it  had  to  come.  .  .  . 
Like  yellow  dogs  unsuccessful  men  are  the  fastest 
breeders.  The  man  in  permanent  hard  luck  is  always 
the  most  prolific.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  there  are  no  more 
children." 

His  sunken  eyes  fell  to  the  b6ok,  and,  thinking  of 
his  wife,  he  read  what  was  not  written  there — 

"  Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech  ;  she  turning  on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly. 

"  '  I  had  great  beauty  ;  ask  thou  not  my  name  ; 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 
Many  drew  swords  and  died.      Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity.'  ' 

Quarren  bit  his  lip  and  looked  down  at  the  sunlit 
brook  dancing  by  under  the  bridge  in  amber  beauty. 

Ledwith  said  musingly :  "  I  don't  know  who  it  might 
have  been  if  it  had  not  been  Sprowl.  It  would  have  been 
somebody!  .  .  .  The  decree  has  been  made  absolute." 

Quarren  looked  up. 

254 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  She's  coming  back  here  soon,  now.  I've  had  the 
place  put  in  shape  for  her." 

After  a  silence  Quarren  rose  and  offered  his  hand. 

Ledwith  took  it :  "I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  you 
again?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  town  this  afternoon.     Good-bye." 

Looking  back  at  the  turn  of  the  path  he  saw  Led 
with,  bent  nearly  double,  terribly  intent  on  his  half- 
bared  arm. 

Returning  in  time  for  luncheon  he  encountered  Sir 
Charles  fresh  from  the  river,  and  Chrysos  prettily  sun 
burned,  just  entering  the  house. 

"  We  broke  down,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  thought  we'd 
never  get  back,  but  Sir  Charles  is  quite  wonderful  and 
he  mended  that  very  horrid  machinery  with  the  point  of 
a  file.  Think  of  it,  Ricky !— the  point  of  a  file !  " 

Sir  Charles  laughed  and  explained  the  simplicity  of 
the  repairs;  and  Chrysos,  not  a  whit  less  impressed, 
stared  at  him  out  of  her  pretty  golden  eyes  with  a  gaze 
perilously  resembling  adoration. 

Afterward,  by  the  bay-window  upstairs,  Quarren 
said  lightly  to  Molly: 

"  How  about  the  little  Lacy  girl  and  the 
Baronet?" 

"  She's  an  idiot,"  said  Molly,  shortly. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  is." 

"  Of  course  she  is.  I  wish  I  hadn't  asked  her.  Why, 
she  goes  about  like  a  creature  in  a  trance  when  Sir 
Charles  is  away.  ...  I  don't  know  whether  to  say  any 
thing  to  her  or  whether  to  write  to  her  mother.  She's 
slated  for  Roger  O'Hara." 

"  I  don't  suppose  her  parents  would  object  to  Sir 
Charles,"  said  Quarren,  smiling. 

255 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  That's  why  I  hesitate  to  write.  Sir  Charles  is  in 
love  with  Strelsa;  anybody  can  see  that  and  everybody 
knows  it.  And  it  isn't  likely  that  a  child  like  Chrysos 
could  swerve  him." 

"  Then  you'd  better  send  him  or  her  away,  hadn't 
you?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Molly,  vexed. 
"  June  is  to  be  quiet  and  peaceful  at  Witch-Hollow,, 
and  Sir  Charles  wanted  to  be  here  and  Mrs.  Lacy  asked 
me  to  have  Chrysos  because  she  needed  the  quiet  and 
calm.  And  look  what  she's  done !  " 

"  It's  probably  only  a  young  girl's  fancy." 

"  Then  it  ought  to  be  nipped  in  the  bud.  But  her 
mother  wants  her  here  and  Sir  Charles  wants  to  be  here 
and  if  I  write  to  her  mother  she'll  let  her  remain  any 
way.  I'm  cross,  Ricky.  I'm  tired,  too — having  dic 
tated  letters  and  signed  checks  until  my  head  aches.. 
Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Prowling." 

"  Well,  luncheon  is  nearly  ready,  and  Strelsa  isn't 
back.  Are  you  going  to  New  York  this  afternoon?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Please  don't." 

"  I  think  it's  better,"  he  said  lightly. 

"  All  right.  Run  away  if  you  want  to.  Don't  say 
another  word  to  me ;  I'm  irritated." 

Luncheon  was  not  very  gay;  Chrysos  adored  Sir 
Charles  in  silence,  but  so  sweetly  and  unobtrusively  that 
the  Baronet  was  totally  unaware  of  it.  Molly,  frankly 
out  of  temper,  made  no  effort  of  any  sort ;  her  husband 
in  his  usual  rude  health  and  spirits  talked  about  the 
Stinger  to  everybody.  Strelsa,  who  had  arrived  late, 
and  whose  toilet  made  her  later  still,  seemed  inclined 

256 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

to  be  rather  cheerful  and  animated,  but  received  little 
encouragement  from  Molly. 

However,  she  chatted  gaily  with  Sir  Charles  and  with 
Quarren,  and  after  luncheon  invited  Sir  Charles  to  read 
to  her  and  Chrysos,  which  the  grave  and  handsome 
Englishman  did  while  they  swung  in  old-fashioned  ham 
mocks  under  the  maple  trees,  enjoying  the  rare  treat  of 
hearing  their  own  language  properly  spoken. 

Molly  had  a  book  to  herself  on  the  veranda — the 
newest  and  wickedest  of  French  yellow-covered  fiction ; 
her  husband  returned  to  the  Stinger;  Quarren  listened 
to  Sir  Charles  for  a  while,  then  without  disturbing  the 
reading,  slipped  quietly  off  and  wandered  toward  the 
kennels. 

Here  for  a  while  he  caressed  the  nervous,  silky  Blue 
Beltons,  then  strolled  on  toward  the  hemlock  woods,  a 
morning  paper,  still  unread,  sticking  out  of  his  pocket. 

When  he  came  to  the  rustic  seat  which  was  his  ob 
jective,  he  lighted  his  pipe,  unfolded  the  paper,  and 
forced  his  attention  on  the  first  column. 

How  long  he  had  been  studying  the  print  he  did  not 
know  when,  glancing  up  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
dry  leaves,  he  saw  Strelsa  coming  in  his  direction.  He 
could  see  her  very  plainly  through  the  hemlocks  from 
where  he  sat  but  she  could  not  as  yet  see  him.  Then  the 
fat  waddling  dog  ahead  of  her,  barked ;  and  he  saw  the 
girl  stop  short,  probably  divining  that  the  rustic  seat 
was  occupied. 

For  a  few  moments  she  stood  there,  perhaps  waiting 
for  her  dog  to  return ;  but  that  fat  sybarite  had  his  chin 
on  Quarren's  knees ;  and,  presently,  Strelsa  moved 
forward,  slowly,  already  certain  who  it  was  ahead 
of  her. 

257 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Quarren  rose  as  she  came  around  the  curve  in  the 
path: 

"  If  you  don't  want  me  here  I'm  quite  willing  to  re 
tire,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

'*  That  is  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say,"  she  commented. 
Then  she  seated  herself  and  motioned  him  to  resume  his 
place. 

"  I  was  rather  wondering,"  she  continued,  "  whether 
I'd  see  you  before  you  leave." 

"  Oh,  are  you  driving  this  afternoon?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  should  certainly  have  looked  for  you  and 
made  my  adieux." 

"  Would  you  have  remembered  to  do  it?  " 

He  laughed: 

"  What  a  question !  I  might  possibly  forget  my 
own  name,  but  not  anything  concerning  you." 

She  looked  down  at  the  paper  lying  between  them  on 
the  bench,  and,  still  looking  down,  said  slowly: 

"  I  am  sorry  for  what  Langly  did  this  morning.  .  .  . 
He  has  expressed  his  contrition  to  me " 

"  That  is  all  right  as  long  as  he  doesn't  express  it 
to  me,"  interrupted  Quarren,  bluntly. 

"  He  means  to  speak  to  you " 

"  Please  say  to  him  that  your  report  of  his  mental 
anguish  is  sufficient." 

"  Are  you  vindictive,  Mr.  Quarren?"  she  asked, 
reddening. 

"  Not  permanently.  But  I  either  like  or  I  dislike. 
So  let  the  incident  close  quietly." 

"  Very    well  —  if    you     care    to    humiliate    me  — 
him- 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Leeds,  he  isn't  going  to  be  humiliated, 
258 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

because  he  doesn't  care.  And  you  know  I  wouldn't 
humiliate  you  for  all  the  world — 

"  You  will  unless  you  let  Langly  express  his  formal 
regrets  to  you — 

He  looked  up  at  her: 

"  Would  that  make  it  easier  for  you  ?. " 

"  I — perhaps — please  do  as  you  see  fit,  Mr.  Quar- 
ren." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  quietly. 

He  caressed  the  dog's  head  where  it  lay  across  his 
knees,  and  looked  out  over  the  water.  Breezes  crinkled 
the  surface  in  every  direction  and  wind-blown  dragon- 
flies  glittered  like  swift  meteors  darting  athwart  the 
sun. 

She  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  I  hope  your  new  business 
venture  will  be  successful." 

"  I  know  you  do.     It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  care." 

"  I  care — greatly.   ...  As  much  as  I — dare." 

He  laughed :  "  Don't  you  dare  care  about  me  ?  " 

She  bit  her  lip :  "  I  have  found  it  slightly  venture 
some  on  one  or  two  occasions." 

"  So  you  don't  really  dare  express  your  kindly  regard 
for  me  fearing  I  might  again  mistake  it  for  something 
deeper."  He  was  still  laughing,  and  she  lifted  her  gray 
eyes  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then : 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  deeper  than  my  re 
gard  for  you — if  you  will  let  it  be  what  it  is,  and  seek 
to  make  nothing  less  spiritual  out  of  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  that?  "  he  asked,  his  face  altering. 

"  Mean  it?    Why  of  course  I  do,  Mr.  Quarren." 

"  I  thought  I  spoiled  that  for  both  of  us,"  he 
said. 

"  I  didn't  say  so.  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  know 
259 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

what  you  had  done.     I've  had  time  to  reflect.     It — our 

friendship  isn't  spoiled — if  you  still  value  it." 

"  I  value  it  above  everything  in  the  world,  Strelsa." 
There  was  a  silence.     The  emotion  in  his  face  and 

voice  was  faintly  reflected  in  hers. 

"  Then  let  us  have  peace,"  she  said  unsteadily.     "  I 

have — been — not  very  happy  since  you — since  we " 


.. 


I  know.  I've  been  utterly  miserable,  too."  He 
lifted  one  of  her  hands  and  kissed  it,  and  she  changed 
colour  but  left  her  hand  lying  inert  in  his. 

"  Do  you  mind?  "  he  asked. 

"  N-no." 

He  laid  his  lips  to  her  fingers  again ;  she  stirred  un 
easily,  then  rested  her  other  arm  on  the  back  of  the  seat 
and  shaded  her  eyes. 

"  I  think — you  had  better  not — touch  me — any 
more — "  she  said  faintly. 

"  Is  it  disagreeable  ?  " 

"  Yes — n-no.  ...  It  is — it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
friendship — "  she  looked  up,  flushed,  curious :  "  Why 
do  you  always  want  to  touch  me,  Mr.  Quarren?  " 

"  Did  you  never  caress  a  flower?  " 

"  Rix !  " — she  caught  her  breath  as  his  name  escaped 
her  for  the  first  time,  and  he  saw  her  face  surging  in  the 
loveliest  colour.  "  It  was  your  nonsensical  answer ! — I 
— it  took  me  by  surprise  .  .  .  and  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  being  stupid.  .  .  .  And — may  I  have  my  hand?  I 
use  it  occasionally." 

He  quietly  reversed  it,  laid  his  lips  to  the  palm,  and 
released  her  fingers. 

"  Strelsa,"  he  said,  "  I'm  coming  back  into  the  battle 
again." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  I  forgave  you." 
260 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Are  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  am.  Yes,  yes,  yes !  Why  can't  you  be  to 
me  what  I  wish  to  be  to  you?  Why  can't  you  be  what 
I  want — what  I  need " 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  need?  " 

"  Yes,  I " 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  need  to  love — and  to  be  loved. 
You  don't  know  it,  but  you  do !  " 

"  That  is  a — a  perfectly  brutal  thing  to  say " 

"  Does  it  sound,  so  to  you?  " 

"  Yes,  it  does !  It  is  brutal — common,  unworthy  of 
you  and  of  me " 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  a  grip  that  almost  hurt 
her: 

"  Can't  you  have  any  understanding,  any  sympathy 
with  human  love?  Can't  you?  Doesn't  a  man's  love 
mean  anything  to  you  but  words?  Is  there  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  it? — merely  because  nothing  has 
ever  yet  awakened  you  to  it?  " 

"Nothing  ever  will,"  she  said  steadily.  "The 
friendship  you  can  have  of  me  is  more  than  love — 
cleaner,  better,  stronger — — " 

"  It  isn't  strong  enough  to  make  you  renounce  what 
you  are  planning  to  do !  " 

"  No." 

"  Yet  love  would  be  strong  enough  to  make  you  re 
nounce  anything!  " 

She  said  calmly :  "  Call  it  by  its  right  name.  Yes, 
they  say  its  slaves  become  irresponsible.  I  know  noth 
ing  about  it — I  could  not — I  will  not !  I  loathe  and  de 
test  any  hint  of  it — to  me  it  is  degrading — contempt 
ible " 

"What  are  you  saying?" 
261 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,"  she  retorted,  pale,  and 
breathing  faster.  "  I'm  telling  you  what  I  know — what 
I  have  learned  in  a  bitter  school — during  two  dreadful 
years " 

"  That!  " 

"  Yes,  that !  Now  you  know !  Now  perhaps  you  can 
understand  why  I  crave  friendship  and  hold  anything 
less  in  horror!  Why  can't  you  be  kind  to  me?  You  are 
the  one  man  I  could  ask  it  of — the  only  man  I  ever  saw 
who  seemed  fitted  to  give  me  what  I  want  and  need,  and 
to  whom  I  could  return  what  he  gave  me  with  all  my 
heart — all  my  heart " 

She  bowed  her  face  over  the  hands  which  he  still 
held ;  suddenly  he  drew  her  close  into  his  arms ;  and  she 
rested  so,  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  I  won't  talk  to  you  of  love  any  more,"  he  whis 
pered.  "  You  poor  little  girl — you  poor  little  thing.  I 
didn't  realise — I  don't  want  to  think  about  it " 

"  I  don't  either,"  she  said.  "  You  will  be  kind  to  me, 
won't  you?  " 

"  Of  course — of  course — you  little,  little  girl.  No 
body  is  going  to  find  fault  with  you,  nobody  is  going  to 
blame  you  or  be  unkind  or  hurt  you  or  demand  anything 
at  all  of  you  or  tell  you  that  you  make  mistakes.  Peo 
ple  are  just  going  to  like  you,  Strelsa,  and  you  needn't 
love  them  if  you  don't  want  to.  You  shall  feel  about 
everything  exactly  as  you  please — about  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry  and  about  me,  too." 

Her  hot  face  against  his  shoulder  was  quivering. 

"  There,"  he  whispered — "  there,  there — you  little, 
little  girl.  That's  all  I  want  of  you  after  all — only 
what  you  want  of  me.  I  don't  wish  to  marry  you  if  you 
don't  wish  it;  I  won't — I  perhaps  couldn't  really  love 

262 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

you  very  deeply  if  you  didn't  respond.  I  shall  not 
bother  you  any  more — or  worry  or  nag  or  insist.  What 
you  do  is  right  as  far  as  I  am  concerned ;  what  you  offer 
I  take;  and  whenever  you  find  yourself  unable  to  re 
spond  to  anything  I  offer,  say  so  fearlessly — look  so, 
even,  and  I'll  understand.  Is  all  well  between  us  now, 
Strelsa?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  You  are  so  good.  ...  I  wanted  this. 
.  .  .  You  don't  mean  anything,  do  you  by — by  your 
arm  around  me " 

"  No  more  than  your  face  against  my  shoulder 
means."  He  smiled — "  Which  I  suppose  signifies  merely 
that  you  feel  very  secure  with  me." 

"  I— begin  to.  ...  Will  you  let  me?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  restless  ?  Do  you  want  to 
lift  your  head?" 

She  moved  a  little  but  made  no  reply.  He  could  see 
only  the  full,  smooth  curve  of  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder.  It  was  rather  colourless. 

"  I  believe  you  are  worn  out,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  not  rested  for  weeks." 

"  On  account  of  that  Trust  business  ?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  I  was  tired  before  that — I  had 
done  too  much — lived  too  much — and  I've  felt  as  though 
I  were  being  hunted  for  so  long.  .  .  .  And  then — I  was 
unhappy  about  you." 

"  Because  I  had  joined  in  the  hunt,"  he  said. 

"  You  were  different,  but — you  made  me  feel  that 
way,  too — a  little " 

"  I  understand  now." 

"Do  you  really?" 

"  Yes.  It's  been  a  case  of  men  following,  crowding 
after  you,  urging,  importuning  you  to  consider  their 

263 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

desires — to  care  for  them  in  their  own  way — all  sorts  I 
suppose,  sad  and  sentimental,  eager  and  exacting,  head 
long  and  boisterous — all  at  you  constantly  to  give  them 
what  is  not  in  you  to  give — what  has  never  been  awak 
ened — what  lies  stunned,  crippled,  perhaps  mangled  in 
its  sleep " 

"  Killed,"  she  whispered. 

"  Perhaps."  He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  absently 
out  across  the  sparkling  water.  Sunlight  slanted  on  his 
shoulder  and  her  hair,  gilding  the  nape  of  her  white  neck 
where  the  hair  grew  blond  and  fine  as  a  child's.  And 
like  a  child,  still  confused  by  memories  of  past  terror, 
partly  quieted  yet  still  sensitive  to  every  sound  or  move 
ment,  Strelsa  lay  close  to  the  arm  that  sheltered  her, 
thinking,  wondering  that  she  could  endure  it,  and  all 
the  while  conscious  that  the  old  fear  of  him  was  no 
longer  there. 

"  Do  you — know  about  me?  "  she  asked  in  a  still, 
low  voice. 

"About  the  past?" 

"  About  my  marriage." 

"  Yes." 

"Everything?" 

"  Some  things." 

"  You  know  what  the  papers  said?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Don't  speak  of  it — unless  you  care  to, 
Strelsa." 

"  I  want  to.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  this  is  the  first 
time?" 

"Is  it?" 

"  The  first  time  I  have  ever  spoken  of  it  to  anybody. 
.  .  .  As  long  as  my  mother  lived  I  did  not  once  speak 
of  it  to  her." 

264 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

She  rested  in  silence  for  a  while,  then : 

"Could  I  tell  you?" 

"  My  dear,  my  dear ! — of  course  you  can." 

"  I — it's  been  unsaid  so  long — there  was  nobody  to 
tell  it  to.  I've  done  my  best  to  forget  it — and  for  days 
I  seem  to  forget  it.  But  sometimes  when  I  wake  at  night 
it  is  there — the  horror  of  it — the  terror  sinking  deeper 
into  my  breast.  ...  I  was  very  young.  You  knew 
that?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  knew  my  mother  had  very  slender  means  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  cared ;  I  was  an  imaginative  child 
— and  could  have  lived  quite  happy  with  my  fancies  on 
very,  very  little.  ...  I  was  a  sensitive  and  affectionate 
child — inclined  to  be  demonstrative.  You  wouldn't  be 
lieve  it,  would  you?  " 

"  I  can  understand  it." 

"  Can  you?  It's  odd  because  I  have  changed  so. 
...  I  was  quite  romantic  about  my  mother — madly  in 
love  with  her.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  more  to  say.  .  .  . 
In  boarding-school  I  was  perfectly  aware  that  I  was 
being  given  the  best  grooming  that  we  could  afford. 
Even  then  romance  persisted.  I  had  the  ideas  of  a 
coloured  picture-book  concerning  men  and  love  and 
marriage.  I  remember,  as  a  very  little  child,  that  I  had 
a  picture-book  showing  Cinderella's  wedding.  It  was 
a  very  golden  sort  of  picture.  It  coloured  my  ideas 
long  after  I  was  grown  up." 

She  moved  her  head  a  little,  looked  up  for  an  instant 
and  smiled;  but  at  his  answering  smile  she  turned  her 
cheek  to  his  shoulder,  hastily,  and  lay  silent  for  a  while. 
Presently  she  continued  in  a  low  voice: 

265 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  was  when  we  were  returning  for  the  April  vaca 
tion — and  the  platform  was  crowded  and  some  of  the 
girls'  brothers  were  there.  There  were  two  trains  in 
— and  much  confusion — I  don't  know  how  I  became 
separated  from  Miss  Buckley  and  my  schoolmates — I 
don't  know  to  this  day  how  I  found  myself  on  the  Bal 
timore  train,  and  Gladys  Leeds's  brother  laughing  and 
talking  and  the  train  moving  faster  and  faster.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  use  saying  any  more.  I  was  as  ignorant  as 
I  was  innocent — a  perfect  little  fool,  frightened,  excited, 
even  amused  by  turns.  .  .  .  He  had  been  attentive  to 
me.  We  both  were  fools.  Only  finally  I  became  badly 
scared  and  he  talked  such  nonsense — and  I  managed  to 
slip  away  from  him  and  board  the  train  at  Baltimore 
as  soon  as  we  arrived  there.  ...  If  he  hadn't  found  me 
and  returned  to  New  York  with  me,  it  might  not  have 
been  known.  But  we  were  recognised  on  the  train  and 
— it  was  a  dreadful  thing  for  me  when  I  arrived  home 
after  midnight.  .  .  ." 

She  fell  silent ;  once  or  twice  he  looked  down  at  her 
and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  closed.  Then,  with  a  quick, 
uneven  breath : 

"  I  think  you  know  the  rest,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

But  she  went  on  in  a  low,  emotionless  voice :  "  I  was 
treated  like  a  damaged  gown — for  which  depreciation  in 
value  somebody  was  to  be  made  responsible.  I  suffered ; 
days  and  nights  seemed  unreal.  There  were  lawyers; 
did  you  know  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  wearily,  "  it  was  a  bad  dream — my 
mother,  others — his  family — many  people  strange  and 
familiar  passed  through  it.  Then  we  travelled;  I  saw 

266 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

nothing,  feeling  half  dead.   .   .   .  We  were  married  in  the 
Hawaiian  Islands." 

"  I  know." 

"  Then — the  two  years  began." 

After  a  long  while  she  said  again :  "  That  was  the 
real  nightmare.  I  passed  through  the  depths  as  in  a 
trance.  There  was  nothing  lower,  not  even  hell.  .  .  . 
We  travelled  in  Europe,  Africa,  and  India  for  two  years. 
...  I  scarcely  remember  a  soul  I  saw  or  one  single  ob 
ject.  And  then — that  happened." 

"  I  know,  dear." 

A  slight  shudder  passed  over  her : 

"  I've  told  you,"  she  whispered — "  I've  told  you  at 
last.  Shall  I  tell  you  more  ?  " 

"  Not  unless—  — " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  want  to — about  the  gen 
darmes — and  that  terrible  woman  who  screamed  when 
they  touched  her  with  the  handcuffs — and  how  ill  I 
was " 

She  had  begun  to  tremble  so  perceptibly  that  Quar- 
ren's  arm  tightened  around  her;  and  presently  she  be 
came  limp  and  motionless. 

"  This — what  I  have  told  you — is  a  very  close  bond 
between  us,  isn't  it?  "  she  said. 

"  Very  close,  Strelsa." 

"Was  I  much  to  blame?" 

"  No." 

"How  much?" 

"  You  should  have  left  him  long  before." 

"  Why,  he  was  my  husband  !  I  had  made  a  contract ; 
I  had  to  keep  it  and  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Is  that  your  idea?" 

"  That  was  all  I  could  see  to  do  about  it." 
267 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"Don't  you  believe  in  divorce?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  thought  he'd  be  killed ;  I  thought  he 
was  a  little  insane.  If  he'd  been  well  mentally  and 
merely  cruel  and  brutal  I  would  have  left  him.  But 
one  can't  abandon  a  helpless  person." 

"  Every  word  you  utter,"  he  said,  "  forges  a  new 
link  in  my  love  for  you." 

"  You  don't  mean — love?  " 

"  We  mean  the  same  I  think — differing  only  in  de 
gree." 

"  Thank  you.     That  is  nice  of  you." 

He  nodded,  smiling  to  himself;  then,  graver: 
'  Is  your  little  fortune  quite  gone,  Strelsa?  " 

"  All  gone— all  of  it." 

"  I  see.   .  .  .  And  something  has  got  to  be  done." 

"You  know  it  has.  .  .  .  And  I'm  old  before  my  time 
— tired,  worn  out.  I  can't  work — I  have  no  heart,  no 
courage.  My  heart  and  strength  were  burnt  out;  I 
haven't  the  will  to  struggle;  I  have  no  capacity  to  en 
dure.  What  ami  to  do?" 

"  Not  what  you  plan  to  do." 

"  Why  not  ?  As  long  as  I  need  help — and  the  best 
is  offered " 

"  Wouldn't  you  take  less — and  me?  " 

"  Oh,  Rix !    I  couldn't  use  you!  " 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  blushed,  and  dis 
engaged  herself  from  his  arm. 

"  I — I — you  are  my  friend.  I  couldn't  do  that.  I 
have  nothing  to  give  anybody — not  even  you."  She 
smiled,  tremulously — "  And  I  suspect  that  as  far  as 
your  fortune  is  concerned,  you  can  offer  me  little  more. 
.  .  .  But  it's  sweet  of  you.  You  are  generous,  having 

so  little  and  wishing  to  share  it  with  me " 

268 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Could  you  wait  for  me,  Strelsa  ?  " 

"  Wait  ?  You  mean  until  you  become  wealthy  ? 
Why,  you  dear  boy,  how  can  I? — even  if  it  were  a  cer 
tainty." 

"  Can't  you  hold  on  for  a  couple  of  years  ?  " 

"  Please  tell  me  how  ?  Why,  I  can't  even  pay  my 
attorneys  until  I  sell  my  house." 

He  bit  his  lip  and  frowned  at  the  sunlit  water. 

"  Besides,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't  anything  to  offer 
you  that  I  haven't  already  given  you " 

"  I  ask  no  more." 

"  Oh,  but  you  do!  " 

"  No,  I  want  only  what  you  want,  Strelsa — only 
what  you  have  to  offer  of  your  own  accord." 

They  fell  silent,  leaning  forward  on  their  knees,  eyes 
absent,  remote. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  done;  do  you?"  she 
said. 

"  If  you  could  wait " 

"  But  Rix;  I've  told  him  that  I  would  marry  him." 

"Does  that  count?" 

"  Yes — I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  how  dishonest 
I  might  be.  ...  I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  happen. 
I'm  so  poor,  Rix — you  don't  realise — and  I'm  tired  and 
sad — old  before  my  time — perplexed,  burnt  out " 

She  rested  her  head  on  one  slender  curved  hand  and 
closed  her  eyes.  After  a  while  she  opened  them  with  a 
weary  smile. 

"  I'll  try  to  think — after  you  are  gone.  .  .  .  What 
time  does  your  train  leave?  " 

He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  rose ;  and  she  sprang 
up,  too : 

"  Have  I  kept  you  too  long?  " 
269 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


"  No ;  I  can  make  it.  We'll  have  to  walk  rather 
fast " 

"  I'd  rather  you  left  me  here." 

"  Would  you?     Then— good-bye " 

"  Good-bye.  .   .   .  Will  you  come  up  again?  " 

"  I'll  try." 

"Shall  we  write?" 

"Will  you?" 

'*  Yes.  I  have  so  much  to  say,  now  that  you  are  go 
ing.  I  am  glad  you  came.  I  am  glad  I  told  you  every 
thing.  Please  believe  that  my  heart  is  enlisted  in  your 
new  enterprise ;  that  I  pray  for  your  success  and  welfare 
and  happiness.  Will  you  always  remember  that?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Then — I  mustn't  keep  you  a  moment  longer. 
Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

They  stood  a  moment,  neither  stirring ;  then  he  put 
his  arms  around  her;  she  touched  his  shoulder  once 
more,  lightly  with  her  cheek — a  second's  contact;  then 
he  kissed  her  clasped  hands  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    XI 

QUARREN  arrived  in  town  about  twilight.  Taxis  were 
no  longer  for  him  nor  he  for  them.  Suit-case  and  walk 
ing-stick  in  hand,  he  started  up  Lexington  Avenue  still 
excited  and  exhilarated  from  his  leave-taking  with 
Strelsa.  An  almost  imperceptible  fragrance  seemed  to 
accompany  him,  freshening  the  air  around  him  in  the 
shabby  streets  of  Ascalon ;  the  heat-cursed  city  grew 
cooler,  sweeter  for  her  memory.  Through  the  avenue's 
lamp-lit  dusk  passed  the  pale  ghosts  of  Gath  and  the 
phantoms  of  the  Philistines,  and  he  thought  their  shad 
owy  forms  moved  less  wearily ;  and  that  strange  faces 
looked  less  wanly  at  him  as  they  grew  out  of  the  night 
— "  clothed  in  scarlet  and  ornaments  of  gold  " — and 
dissolved  again  into  darkness. 

Still  thrilled,  almost  buoyant,  he  walked  on,  passing 
the  high-piled  masonry  of  the  branch  Post-Office  and  the 
Central  Palace  on  his  left.  Against  high  stars  the  twin 
Power-House  chimneys  stood  outlined  in  steel ;  on  the 
right  endless  blocks  of  brown-stone  dwellings  stretched 
northward,  some  already  converted  into  shops  where 
print-sellers,  dealers  in  old  books,  and  here  and  there  an 
tiquaries,  had  constructed  show-windows. 

Firemen  lounged  outside  the  Eighth  Battalion  quar 
ters  ;  here  and  there  a  grocer's  or  wine-seller's  windows 
remained  illuminated  where  those  who  were  neither  well- 

271 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


to-do  nor  very  poor  passed  to  and  fro  with  little  pack 
ages  which  seemed  a  burden  under  the  sultry  skies. 

At  last,  ahead,  the  pseudo-oriental  towers  of  a  syna 
gogue  varied  the  flat  skyline,  and  a  moment  later  he 
could  see  the  New  Thought  Laundry,  the  Tonsorial 
Drawing  Rooms,  the  Undertaker's  discreetly  illuminated 
windows,  and  finally  the  bay-window  of  his  own  recent 
Real-Estate  office,  now  transmogrified  into  the  Dank- 
mere  Galleries  of  Old  Masters,  Fayre  and  Quarren,  pro 
prietors. 

The  window  appeared  to  be  brilliantly  illuminated 
behind  the  drawn  curtains ;  and  Quarren,  surprised  and 
vexed,  concluded  that  the  little  Englishman  was  again 
entertaining.  So  it  perplexed  and  astonished  him  to 
find  the  Earl  sitting  on  the  front  steps,  his  straw  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  smoking.  At  the  same  moment 
from  within  the  house  a  confused  and  indescribable  mur 
mur  was  wafted  to  his  ears  as  though  many  people  were 
applauding. 

"  What  on  earth  is  going  on  inside?  "  he  asked,  be 
wildered. 

"  You  told  me  over  the  telephone  that  Karl 
Westguard  might  have  the  gallery  for  this  even 
ing,"  said  the  Englishman  calmly.  "  So  I  let  him 
have  it." 

"  What  did  he  want  of  it  ?  Who  has  he  got  in 
there?  " — demanded  Quarren  as  another  ripple  of  ap 
plause  sounded  from  within. 

Dankmere  thought  a  moment :  "  I  really  don't  know 
the  audience,  Quarren — they're  not  a  very  fragrant 
lot." 

"  What  audience?    Who  are  they?  " 

"  You  Americans  would  call  them  a  tough-looking 
272 


"A  high  and  soulful  tenor  voice 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

bunch — except  Westguard  and  Bleecker  De  Groot  and 
Mrs.  Caldera " 

"  Cyrille  Caldera  and  De  Groot !  What's  that  silly 
old  Dandy  doing  down  here?  " 

"  Diffusing  sweetness  and  light  among  the  un 
washed;  telling  them  that  there  are  no  such  things  as 
classes,  that  wealth  is  no  barrier  to  brotherhood,  that 
the  heart  of  Fifth  Avenue  beats  as  warmly  and  guile 
lessly  as  the  heart  of  Essex  Street,  and  that  its  wealth- 
burderied  inhabitants  have  long  desired  to  fraternise 
with  the  benchers  in  Paradise  Park." 

"  Who  put  Westguard  up  to  this?  "  asked  Quarren, 
aghast. 

"  De  Groot.  Karl  is  writing  a  levelling  novel  calcu 
lated  to  annihilate  caste.  The  Undertaker  next  door 
furnished  the  camp-chairs ;  the  corner  grocer  the  colla 
tion  ;  Westguard,  Mrs.  Caldera,  and  Bleecker  De  Groot 
the  mind-food.  Go  in  and  look  'em  over." 

The  front  door  was  standing  partly  open ;  the  notes 
of  a  piano  floated  through ;  a  high  and  soulful  tenor 
voice  was  singing  "  Perfumes  of  Araby,"  but  Quarren 
did  not  notice  any  as  he  stepped  inside. 

Not  daring  to  leave  his  suit-case  in  the  hallway  he 
kept  on  along  the  passage  to  the  extension  where  the 
folding  doors  were  locked.  Here  he  deposited  his  lug 
gage,  locked  the  door,  then  walked  back  to  the  front 
parlour  and,  unobserved,  slipped  in,  seating  himself 
among  the  battered  derelicts  of  the  rear  row. 

A  thin,  hirsute  young  man  had  just  finished  scatter 
ing  the  perfumes  of  Araby ;  other  perfumes  nearly  fin 
ished  Quarren ;  but  he  held  his  ground  and  gazed  grimly 
at  an  improvised  platform  where  sat  in  a  half-circle  and 
in  full  evening  dress,  Karl  Westguard,  Cyrille  Caldera 

273 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  Bleecker  De  Groot.  Also  there  was  a  table  sup 
porting  a  Calla  lily. 

Westguard  was  saying  very  earnestly :  "  The  world 
calls  me  a  novelist.  I  am  not !  Thank  Heaven,  I  aspire 
to  something  loftier.  I  am  not  a  mere  scribbler  of  fiction  ; 
I  am  a  man  with  a  message — a  plain,  simple,  earnest, 
warm-hearted  humanitarian  who  has  been  roused  to 
righteous  indignation  by  the  terrible  contrast  in  this 
miserable  city  between  wealth  and  poverty " 

"  That's  right,"  interrupted  a  hoarse  voice ;  "  it's 
all  a  con  game,  an'  the  perlice  is  into  it,  too !  " 

"  T'hell  wit  te  bulls  !  Croak  'em !  "  observed  another 
gentleman  thickly. 

Westguard,  slightly  discountenanced  by  the  signifi 
cant  cheers  which  greeted  this  sentiment,  introduced 
Bleecker  De  Groot ;  and  the  rotund  old  Beau  came  jaun 
tily  forward,  holding  out  both  immaculate  hands  with 
an  artlessly  comprehensive  gesture  calculated  to  make 
the  entire  East  Side  feel  that  it  was  reposing  upon  his 
beautifully  laundered  bosom. 

"  Ah,  my  friends !  "  cried  De  Groot,  "  if  you  could 
only  realise  how  great  is  the  love  for  humanity  within 
my  breast ! — If  you  could  only  know  of  the  hours  and 
days  and  even  weeks  that  I  have  devoted  to  solving  the 
problems  of  the  poor ! 

"  And  I  have  solved  them — every  one.  And  this  is 
the  answer !  " — grasping  dauntlessly  at  a  dirty  hand 
and  shaking  it — "  this  !  "  seizing  another — "  and  this, 
and  this !  And  now  I  ask  you,  what  is  this  mute  an 
swer  which  I  have  given  you?  " 

"  De  merry  mitt,"  said  a  voice,  promptly.  Mr.  De 
Groot  smiled  with  sweetness  and  indulgence. 

"  I  apprehend  your  quaint  and  trenchant  vernacu- 
274 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

lar,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  '  merry  mitt ' — the  '  glad 
glove,'  the  '  happy  hand  ' !  Fifth  Avenue  clasps  palms 
with  Doyers  Street " 

"  Ding !  "  said  a  weary  voice,  "  yer  in  wrong,  boss. 
It's  nix  f'r  the  Tongs  wit  us  gents.  We  transfer  to 
Avenue  A." 

Mr.  De  Groot  merely  smiled  indulgently.  "  The 
rich,"  he  said,  "  are  not  really  happy."  His  plump, 
highly  coloured  features  altered;  presently  a  price 
less  tear  glimmered  in  his  monocle  eye ;  and  he 
brushed  it  away  with  a  kind  of  noble  pity  for  his  own 
weakness. 

"  Dear,  dear  friends,"  he  said  tremulously,  "  be 
lieve  me — oh,  believe  me  that  the  rich  are  not  happy ! 
Only  the  perspiring  labourer  knows  what  is  true  con 
tentment.  The  question  of  poverty  is  a  great  social 
question.  With  me  it  is  a  religion.  Oh,  I  could  go  on 
forever  on  this  subject,  dear  friends,  and  talk  on  and 
on  and  on 

Emotion  again  checked  him — or  perhaps  he  had  lost 
the  thread  of  his  discourse — or  possibly  he  had  attained 
its  limit — but  he  filled  it  out  by  coming  down  from 
the  platform  and  shaking  hands  so  vigorously  that  the 
gardenia  in  his  lapel  presently  fell  out. 

Cyrille  Caldera  rose,  fresh  and  dainty  and  smiling, 
and  discoursed  single-tax  and  duplex  tenements,  getting 
the  two  subjects  mixed  but  not  minding  that.  Also 
she  pointed  at  the  Calla  lily  and  explained  that  the  lily 
was  the  emblem  of  purity.  Which  may  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  something  or  other. 

Then  Westguard  arose  once  more  and  told  them  all 
about  the  higher  type  of  novel  he  was  writing  for  hu 
manity's  sake,  and  became  so  interested  and  absorbed  in 

275 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

his  own  business  that  the  impatient  shuffling  of  shabby 
feet  on  the  floor  alone  interrupted  him. 

"  Has  anybody,"  inquired  De  Groot,  sweetly,  "  any 
vital  question  to  ask — any  burning  inquiry  of  deeper, 
loftier  import,  which  has  perhaps  long  remained  un 
answered  in  his  heart  ?  " 

A  gentleman  known  usually  as  "  Mike  the  Mink  " 
arose  and  indicated  with  derisive  thumb  a  picture  among 
the  Dankmere  collection,  optimistically  attributed  to 
Correggio : 

"  Is  that  Salome,  mister?  "  he  inquired  with  a  leer. 

De  Groot  looked  at  the  canvas,  slightly  startled. 

"  No,  my  dear  friend ;  that  is  a  picture  painted  hun 
dreds  of  years  ago  by  a  great  Italian  master.  It  is 
called  '  DanaeV  Jupiter,  you  know,  came  to  her  in  a 
shower  of  gold " 

"  They  all  have  to  come  across  with  it,"  remarked 
the  Mink. 

Somebody  observed  that  if  the  police  caught  the 
dago  who  painted  it  they'd  pinch  him. 

To  make  a  diversion,  and  with  her  own  fair  hands, 
Cyrille  Caldera  summoned  the  derelicts  to  sandwiches 
and  ginger-ale;  and  De  Groot,  dashing  more  unmanly 
moisture  from  his  monocle,  went  about  resolutely  shak 
ing  hands,  while  Westguard  and  the  hirsute  young  man 
sang  "  Comrades  "  with  much  feeling. 

Quarren,  still  unrecognised,  edged  his  way  out  and 
rejoined  Dankmere  on  the  front  stoop.  Neither  made 
any  comment  on  the  proceedings. 

Later  the  derelicts,  moodily  replete,  shuffled  forth 
into  the  night,  herded  lovingly  by  De  Groot,  still  shak 
ing  hands. 

From  the  corner  of  the  street  opposite,  Quarren  and 
276 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Dankmere  observed  their  departure,  and,  later,  they  be 
held  De  Groot  and  Mrs.  Caldera  slip  around  the  block 
and  discreetly  disappear  into  a  1912  touring-car  with 
silver  mountings  and  two  men  in  livery  on  the  box. 

Westguard,  truer  to  his  principles,  took  a  tram  and 
Quarren  and  the  Earl  returned  to  their  gallery  with 
mixed  emotions,  and  opened  every  window  top  and 
bottom. 

"  It's  all  right  in  its  way,  I  suppose,"  said  Quarren. 
"  Probably  De  Groot  means  well,  but  there's  no  conver 
sation  possible  between  a  man  who  has  just  dined  rather 
heavily,  and  a  man  who  has  no  chance  of  dining  at  all." 

"  Like  preaching  Christ  to  the  poor  from  a  Fifth 
Avenue  pulpit,"  said  Dankmere,  vaguely. 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  A  church  on  a  side  street  would  seem  to  serve  the 
purpose.  And  the  poor  need  the  difference." 

"  I  don't  know  about  those  matters." 

"  No ;  I  don't  either.  It's  easy,  cheap,  and  popular 
to  knock  the  clergy.  .  .  .  Still,  somehow  or  other,  I 
can't  seem  to  forget  that  the  disciples  were  poor — and 
it  bothers  me  a  lot,  Quarren." 

Quarren  said :  "  Haven't  you  and  I  enough  to  worry 
us  concerning  our  own  morals?  " 

Dankmere,  who  had  been  closing  up  and  piling  to 
gether  the  Undertaker's  camp-chairs,  looked  around  at 
the  younger  man. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  said  that  probably  you  and  I  would  find  no  time 
left  to  criticise  either  De  Groot  or  the  clergy,  if  we  used 
our  leisure  in  self-examination." 

His  lordship  went  on  piling  up  chairs.  When  he 
finished  he  started  wandering  around,  hands  in  his  pock- 

277 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ets.  Then  he  turned  out  all  the  electric  lamps,  drew 
the  bay-window  curtains  wide  so  that  the  silvery  radi 
ance  from  the  arc-light  opposite  made  the  darkness 
dimly  lustrous. 

A  little  breeze  stirred  the  hair  on  Quarren's  fore 
head  ;  Dankmere  dropped  into  the  depths  of  an  arm 
chair  near  him.  For  a  while  they  sat  together  in  dark 
ness  and  silence,  then  the  Englishman  said  abruptly : 

"  You've  been  very  kind  to  me." 

Quarren  glanced  up  surprised. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  nobody  else  has  any  decent  words  to  say 
to  me  or  of  me." 

Quarren,  amused,  said :  "  How  do  you  know  that  / 
have,  Dankmere  ?  " 

"  A  man  knows  some  things.  For  example,  most 
people  take  me  for  an  ass — they  don't  tell  me  so  but  I 
know  it.  And  if  they  don't  take  me  for  an  ass  they 
assume  that  I'm  something  worse — because  I  have  a  title 
of  sorts,  no  money,  an  inclination  for  the  stage  and  the 
people  who  make  a  living  out  of  it." 

"  Also,"  Quarren  reminded  him,  "  you  are  looking 
for  a  wealthy  wife." 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  Am  I  the  only  chap  in  America 
who  happens  to  be  doing  that  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  you're  doing  it  conspicuously." 

"  You  mean  I'm  honest  about  it?  " 

Quarren  laughed :  "  Anyway  perhaps  that's  one  rea 
son  why  I  like  you.  At  first  I  also  thought  it  was  merely 
stupidity." 

Dankmere  crossed  his  short  legs  and  lighted  his 
pipe: 

"  The  majority  of  your  better  people  have  managed 
278 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

not  to  know  me.  I've  met  a  lot  of  men  of  sorts,  but 
they  draw  the  line  across  their  home  thresholds — most 
of  them.  Is  it  the  taint  of  vaudeville  that  their  wives 
sniff  at,  or  my  rather  celebrated  indigence?  " 

"  Both,  Dankmere — and  then  some." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Many  thanks  for  telling  me.  I  take  it 
you  mean  that  it  was  my  first  wife  they  shy  at." 

Quarren  remained  silent. 

"  She  was  a  bar-maid,"  remarked  the  Earl.  "  We 
were  quite  happy — until  she  died." 

Quarren  made  a  slight  motion  of  comprehension. 

"  Of  course  my  marrying  her  damned  us  both,"  ob 
served  the  Earl. 

"  Of  course." 

"  Quite  so.  People  would  have  stood  for  anything 
else.  .  .  .  But  she  wouldn't — you  may  think  it  odd. 
.  .  .  And  I  was  in  love — so  there  you  are." 

For  a  while  they  smoked  in  the  semi-darkness  with 
out  exchanging  further  speech;  and  finally  Dankmere 
knocked  out  his  pipe,  pocketed  it,  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  I'm  not  really  an  ass.  My 
tastes  and  my  caste  don't  happen  to  coincide — that's 
all,  Quarren." 

They  walked  together  to  the  front  stoop. 

"  When  do  we  open  shop  ?  "  asked  the  Earl,  briskly. 

"  As  soon  as  I  get  the  reports  from  our  experts." 

"  Won't  business  be  dead  all  summer?  " 

"  We  may  do  some  business  with  agents  and 
dealers." 

"  I  see.  You  and  I  are  to  alternate  as  sales 
men?  " 

"  For  a  while.  When  things  start  I  want  to  rent  the 
basement  and  open  a  department  for  repairing,  relining 

279 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  cleaning;  and  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  do  some  of  the 
work  myself." 

"  You?  " 

"  Surely.     It  interests  me  immensely." 

"  You're  welcome  I'm  sure,"  said  Dankmere  drily. 
"  But  who's  to  keep  the  books  and  attend  to  correspond 
ence?  " 

"  We'll  get  somebody.  A  young  woman,  who  says 
she  is  well  recommended,  advertised  in  Thursday's 
papers,  Mid  I  wrote  her  from  Witch-Hollow  to  come 
around  Sunday  morning." 

"  That's  to-morrow." 

Quarren  nodded. 

So  Dankmere  trotted  jauntily  away  into  the  night, 
and  Quarren  locked  the  gallery  and  went  to  bed,  certain 
that  he  was  destined  to  dream  of  Strelsa.  But  the  sleek, 
narrow  head  and  slightly  protruding  eyes  of  Langly 
Sprowl  was  the  only  vision  that  peered  cautiously  at 
him  through  his  sleep. 

The  heated  silence  of  a  Sunday  morning  in  June 
awoke  him  from  a  somewhat  restless  night.  Bathed 
and  shaved,  he  crept  forth  limply  to  breakfast  at 
the  Founders'  Club  where  he  still  retained  a  member 
ship.  There  was  not  a  soul  there  excepting  himself 
and  the  servants — scarcely  a  person  on  the  avenues 
and  cross-streets  which  he  traversed  going  and  com 
ing,  only  one  or  two  old  men  selling  Sunday  papers 
at  street-stands,  an  old  hag  gleaning  in  the  gutters, 
and  the  sparrows. 

Clothing  was  a  burden.  He  had  some  pongee  gar 
ments  which  he  put  on,  installed  himself  in  the  gallery 
with  a  Sunday  paper,  an  iced  lime  julep,  and  a  cigar 
ette,  and  awaited  the  event  of  the  young  lady  who  had 

280 


'She  came  about  noon — a  pale  youn 


girl,  very  slim  in  her  limp  black  gown." 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

advertised  that  she  knew  all  about  book-keeping,  ste 
nography,  and  typewriting,  and  could  prove  it. 

She  came  about  noon — a  pale  young  girl,  very  slim 
in  her  limp  black  gown,  and,  at  Quarren's  invitation, 
seated  herself  at  the  newly  purchased  desk  of  the  firm. 

Here,  at  his  request  she  took  a  page  or  two  of  dic 
tation  from  him  and  typed  it  rapidly  and  accurately. 

She  had  her  own  system  of  book-keeping  which  she 
explained  to  the  young  man  who  seemed  to  think  it  sat 
isfactory.  Then  he  asked  her  what  salary  she  expected, 
and  she  told  him,  timidly. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  if  it  suits  you  it 
•certainly  suits  me.  Will  you  begin  to-morrow?  " 

"  Whenever  you  wish,  Mr.  Quarren." 

"  Well,  there  won't  be  very  much  to  do  for  a  while," 
he  said  laughingly,  "  except  to  sit  at  that  desk  and  look 
ornamental." 

She  flushed,  then  smiled  and  thanked  him  for  giving 
her  the  position,  adding  with  another  blush  that  she 
would  do  her  best. 

"  Your  best,"  he  said  amiably,  "  will  probably  be 
exactly  what  we  require.  ...  Did  you  bring  any 
letters  ?  " 

She  hesitated:  "  One,"  she  said  gravely.  She 
searched  in  her  reticule,  found  it,  and  handed  it  to 
Quarren  who  read  it  in  silence,  then  returned  it  to  her. 

"  You  were  stenographer  in  Mr.  SprowPs  private 
office?" 

"  Yes." 

"  This  letter  isn't  signed  by  Mr.  Sprowl." 

"  No,  by  Mr.  Kyte,  liis  private  secretary." 

"  It  seems  you  were  there  only  six  months." 

"  Six  months." 

281 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  And  before  that  where  were  you?  " 

"  At  home/' 

"  Oh ;  Mr.  Sprowl  was  your  first  employer !  " 

"  Yes." 

"Why  did  you  leave?" 

The  girl  hesitated  so  long  that  he  thought  she  had 
not  understood,  and  was  about  to  repeat  the  question 
when  something  in  her  pallor  and  in  her  uplifted  eyes 
checked  him. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  was  sent  away,"  she  said  in  a 
colourless  voice. 

He  thought  for  a  while,  then,  carelessly :  "  I  take  it 
that  there  was  nothing  irregular  in  your  conduct  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You'd  tell  me  if  there  was,  wouldn't  you?  " 

She  lifted  her  dark  eyes  to  his.     "  Yes,"  she  said. 

How  much  of  an  expert  he  was  at  judging  faces  he 
did  not  know,  but  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  him 
self  when  she  took  her  leave. 

And  when  Dankmere  came  in  after  luncheon  he  said : 

"  I've  engaged  a  book-keeper.  Her  name  is  Jessie 
Vining.  She's  evidently  unhappy,  poor,  underfed,  and 
the  prettiest  thing  you  ever  saw  out  of  a  business  col 
lege.  So,  being  unhappy,  poor,  underfed  and  pretty,  I 
take  it  that  she's  all  to  the  good." 

"  It's  a  generous  world  of  men,"  said  Dankmere — 
"  so  I  guess  she  is  good." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.  She  was  Sprowl's  private  stenog 
rapher — and  he  sent  her  away.  .  .  .  There  are  three 
reasons  why  he  might  have  dismissed  her.  I've  taken 
my  choice  of  them." 

"  Did  he  give  her  a  letter?  " 

"  No." 

282 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Oh.     Then  I've  taken  my  choice,  too." 

"  Kyte  ventured  to  give  her  a  letter,"  said  Quarren. 
"  I've  heard  that  Kyte  could  be  decent  sometimes." 

"  I  see." 

Nothing  further  was  said  about  the  new  book-keeper. 
His  lordship  went  into  the  back  parlour  and  played  the 
piano  until  satiated;  then  mixed  himself  a  lime  julep. 

That  afternoon  they  went  over  the  reports  of  the 
experts  very  carefully.  From  these  reports  and  his  own 
conclusions  Quarren  drafted  a  catalogue  while  Dank- 
mere  went  about  sticking  adhesive  labels  on  the  frames, 
all  numbered.  And,  as  he  trotted  blithely  about  his 
work,  he  talked  to  himself  and  to  the  pictures : 

"  Here's  number  nine  for  you,  old  lady !  If  I'd  had 
a  face  like  that  I'd  have  killed  the  artist  who  transferred 
it  to  canvas  !  .  .  .  Number  sixteen  for  you  there  in  your 
armour!  Somebody  in  Springfield  will  buy  you  for  an 
ancestor  and  that's  what  will  happen  to  you.  .  .  . 
And  you,  too,  in  a  bag-wig! — you'll  be  some  rich 
Yankee's  ancestor  before  you  know  it !  That's  the  way 
you'll  end,  my  smirking  friend.  .  .  .  Hello !  Tiens !  In 
Gottes  namen — whom  have  we  here?  Why,  it's  Venus! 
.  .  .  And  hot  weather  is  no  excuse  for  going  about  that 
way !  .  .  .  Listen  to  this,  Quarren,  for  an  impromptu 
patter-song — 

"  '  Venus,  dear,  you  ought  to  know 

What  the  proper  caper  is — 
Even  Eve,  who  wasn't  slow, 

Robbed  the  neighbours'  graperies  ! 
Even  Maenads  on  the  go, 
Fat  Bacchantes  in  a  row — 
Even  ladies  in  a  show 

Wear  some  threads  of  naperies  ! 
283 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 


Through  the  heavens  planet-strewn 

Where  a  shred  of  vapour  is 
Quickly  clothes  herself  the  Moon  ! 
Get  you  to  a  modiste  soon 

Where  the  tissue-paper  is, 
Cut  in  fashions  fit  for  June — 

WTear  'em,  dear,  for  draperies '  ' 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  protested  Quarren — "  how  long 
can  you  run  on  like  that?  " 

"  Years  and  years,  my  dear  fellow.  It's  in  me — born 
in  me !  Can  you  beat  it  ?  Though  I  appear  to  be  a 
peer  appearance  is  a  liar;  cast  for  a  part  apart  from 
caste,  departing  I  climb  higher  toward  the  boards  to 
bore  the  hordes  and  lord  it,  sock  and  buskin  dispensing 
sweetness,  art,  and  light  as  per  our  old  friend  Rus- 
kin " 

"  Dankmere !  " 

"Heaven-born?" 

"  Stop !  " 

"  I  remain  put.  .  .  .  What  number  do  I  stick  on 
this  gentleman  with  streaky  features  ?  " 

"  Eighteen.     That's  a  Franz  Hals." 

"Really?" 

"  Yes ;  the  records  are  all  here,  and  the  experts 
agree." 

His  lordship  got  down  nimbly  from  the  step-ladder 
and  came  over  to  the  desk : 

"  Young  sir,"  he  said,  "  how  much  is  that  picture 
worth?" 

"  All  we  can  get  for  it.  It's  not  a  very  good  ex 
ample." 

"  Are  you  going  to  tell  people  that?  " 
284 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  If  they  ask  me,"  said  Quarren,  smiling. 

"  What  price  are  you  going  to  put  on  it?  " 

"  Ten  thousand." 

"  And  do  you  think  any  art-smitten  ass  will  pay  that 
sum  for  a  thing  like  that?  " 

"  I  think  so.  If  it  were  only  a  decent  example  I'd 
ask  ten  times  that — and  probably  get  it  in  the  end." 

Dankmere  inspected  the  picture  more  respectfully 
for  a  few  moments,  then  pasted  a  label  on  an  exquisite 
head  by  Greuze. 

"  She's  a  peach,"  he  said.  "  What  price  is  going 
to  waft  her  from  my  roof-tree?  " 

"  The  experts  say  it's  not  a  Greuze  but  a  contem 
porary  copy.  And  there's  no  pedigree,  either." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Earl  blankly,  "  is  that  your  opinion, 
too?" 

"  I  haven't  any  yet.  But  there's  no  such  picture  by 
Greuze  extant." 

"  You  don't  think  it  a  copy?  " 

"  I'm  inclined  not  to.  Under  that  thick  blackish- 
yellow  varnish  I  believe  Til  find  the  pearl  and  rose  tex 
ture  of  old  Greuze  himself.  In  the  meantime  it's  not  for 
sale." 

"  I  see.     And  this  battle-scene?  " 

"  Wouverman's — ruined  by  restoring.  It's  not 
worth  much." 

"And  this  Virgin?" 

"  Pure  as  the  Virgin  Herself — not  a  mark — flawless. 
It's  by  '  The  Master  of  the  Death  of  Mary.'  Isn't  it  a 
beauty?  Do  you  notice  St.  John  holding  the  three 
cherries  and  the  Christ-child  caressing  the  goldfinch? 
Did  you  ever  see  such  colour?  " 

"  It's — er — pretty,"  said  his  lordship. 
285 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

And  so  during  the  entire  afternoon  they  compiled 
the  price-list  and  catalogue,  marking  copies  for  what 
they  were,  noting  such  pictures  as  had  been  ruined  by 
restoring  or  repainted  so  completely  as  to  almost  ob 
literate  the  last  original  brush  stroke.  Also  Quarren 
reserved  for  his  own  investigations  such  canvases  as 
he  doubted  or  of  which  he  had  hopes — a  number  that 
under  their  crocked,  battered,  darkened  or  discoloured 
surfaces  hinted  of  by-gone  glories  that  might  still 
be  living  and  only  imprisoned  beneath  the  thick  opacity 
of  dust,  soot,  varnish,  and  the  repainting  of  many 
years  ago. 

And  that  night  he  went  to  bed  happier  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  all  his  life — unless  his  moments  with  Strelsa 
Leeds  might  be  termed  happy  ones. 

Monday  morning  brought,  among  other  things,  a 
cloudless  sun,  and  little  Miss  Vining  quite  as  spotless 
and  radiant;  and  within  ten  minutes  the  click  of  the 
typewriter  made  the  silent  picture-plastered  rooms 
almost  gay. 

In  shirtwaist  and  cuffs  she  took  her  place  behind  the 
desk  with  a  sort  of  silent  decision  which  seemed  at  once 
to  invest  her  with  suzerainty  over  all  that  corner  of  the 
room ;  and  Dankmere  coming  in  a  little  later,  whistling 
merrily  and  twirling  his  walking-stick,  sheered  off  in 
stinctively  on  his  breezy  progress  through  the  rooms, 
skirting  Jessie  Vining's  domain  as  though  her  private 
ensign  flew  above  it  and  earthworks,  cannon  and  tres 
pass  notices  flanked  her  corner  on  every  side. 

In  the  back  parlour  he  said  to  Quarren :  "  So  that 
is  the  girl?" 

"  It  sure  is." 

286 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  she  acts  as  though  she  had  just 
bought  in  the  whole  place." 

"  What's  she  doing?  " 

"  Just  sitting  there,"  admitted  Dankmere. 

He  seemed  to  have  lost  his  spirits.  Once,  certain 
that  he  was  unobserved  except  by  Quarren,  he  ventured 
to  balance  his  stick  on  his  chin,  but  it  was  a  half-hearted 
performance;  and  when  he  tossed  up  his  straw  hat  and 
attempted  to  catch  it  on  his  head,  he  missed,  and  the 
corrugated  brim  sustained  a  dent. 

A  number  of  people  called  that  morning,  quiet,  well- 
dressed,  cautious-eyed,  soft-spoken  gentlemen  who 
moved  about  noiselessly  over  the  carpets  and,  on  en 
countering  one  another,  nodded  with  silent  familiarity 
and  smiles  scarcely  perceptible. 

They  seemed  to  require  no  information  concerning 
the  pictures  which  they  swept  with  glances  almost  care 
less  on  their  first  rounds  of  the  rooms.  But  the  first 
leisurely  tour  always  resulted  in  a  second  where  one  or 
two  pictures  seemed  to  claim  their  closer  scrutiny. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  gentlemen  would  screw 
a  jeweller's  glass  into  his  eye  and  remain  a  few  minutes 
nose  almost  touching  a  canvas.  Several  used  the  large 
reading-glass  lying  on  a  side  table.  Before  they  de 
parted  all  glanced  over  the  incomplete  scale  of  prices 
which  Jessie  Vining  had  typed  and  bound  in  blue  covers  ; 
but  one  and  all  took  their  leave  in  amiable  silence,  say 
ing  a  non-committal  word  or  two  to  Quarren  in  pleas 
antly  modulated  voices  and  passing  Jessie's  desk  with  a 
grave  inclination  of  gravely  preoccupied  faces. 

When  the  last  leisurely  lingerer  had  taken  his  leave 
Quarren  said  to  Jessie  Vining: 

"  Those  are  representatives  of  various  first-class 
287 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

dealers — confidential  buyers,  sons — even  dealers  them 
selves  —  like  that  handsome  gray-haired  young-look 
ing  man  who  is  Max  Von  Ebers,  head  of  that  great 
house." 

"  But  they  didn't  buy  one  single  thing !  "  said  Jessie. 

Quarren  laughed :  "  People  don't  buy  off-hand.  Our 
triumph  is  to  get  them  here  at  all.  I  wrote  to  each  of 
them  personally." 

Nobody  else  came  for  a  long  while ;  then  one  or  two 
of  the  lesser  dealers  appeared,  and  now  and  then  a  man 
who  might  be  an  agent  or  a  prowling  and  wealthy  ama 
teur  or  perhaps  one  of  those  curious  haunters  of  all  art 
marts  who  never  buy  but  who  never  miss  assisting  at  all 
inaugurations  in  person — like  an  ubiquitous  and  silent 
dog  who  turns  up  wherever  more  than  two  people  as 
semble  with  any  purpose  in  view — or  without  any. 

During  the  forenoon  and  early  afternoon  several 
women  came  into  the  galleries ;  and  they  seemed  to  be  a 
little  different  from  ordinary  women,  although  it  would 
be  hard  to  say  wherein  they  were  different  except  in 
one  instance — a  tall,  darkly  handsome  girl  whose  jew 
ellery  was  as  conspicuously  oriental  as  her  brilliant 
colour. 

Later  Quarren  told  Jessie  Vining  that  they  were  ex 
pert  buyers  on  commission  or  brokers  having  clients 
among  those  very  wealthy  people  who  bought  pictures 
now  and  then  because  it  was  fashionable  to  do  so. 
Also,  these  same  women-brokers  represented  a  number 
of  those  unhappy  old  families  who,  incognito,  were  be 
ing  forced  by  straitened  circumstances  to  part  secretly 
with  heirlooms — family  plate,  portraits,  miniatures, 
furniture — even  with  the  antique  mirrors  on  the  walls 

288 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  the  very  fire-dogs  on  the  hearth  amid  the  ashes  of 
a  burnt-out  race  almost  extinct. 

A  few  Jews  came — representing  the  extreme  types 
of  the  most  wonderful  race  of  people  in  the  world — one 
tall,  handsome,  immaculate  young  man  whose  cultivated 
accent,  charming  manners,  and  quiet  bearing  challenged 
exception — and  one  or  two  representing  the  other  ex 
treme,  loud,  restless,  aggressive,  and  as  impertinent  as 
they  dared  be,  discussing  the  canvases  in  noisy  voices 
and  with  callous  manners  verging  always  on  the  offen 
sive. 

These  evinced  a  disposition  for  cash  deals  and  bar 
gain-wrangling,  discouraged  good-naturedly  by  Quarren 
who  referred  them  to  the  catalogue ;  and  presently  they 
took  themselves  off. 

Dankmere  sidled  up  to  Quarren  rather  timidly  to 
ward  the  close  of  the  afternoon. 

"  I  don't  see  what  bally  good  7  am  in  this  business," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  mean  to  shirk,  Quarren,  but  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  for  me  to  do.  I  think  that 
all  these  beggars  spot  me  for  an  ignoramus  the  moment 
they  lay  eyes  on  me,  and  the  whole  thing  falls  on  you." 

Quarren  said  laughingly :  "  Well,  didn't  you  furnish 
the  stock?" 

"We  ought  to  go  halves,"  muttered  Dankmere,  shyly 
skirting  Jessie  Vining's  domain  where  she  was  writing 
letters  with  the  Social  Register  at  her  elbow. 

The  last  days  of  June  and  the  first  of  July  were 
repetitions  in  a  measure  of  the  opening  day  at  the 
Dankmere  Galleries ;  people  came  and  were  received 
and  entertained  by  Quarren;  Dankmere  sat  about  in 
various  chairs  or  retired  furtively  to  the  backyard  to 

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THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

smoke  at  intervals;  Jessie  Vining  with  more  colour  in 
her  pale,  oval  face,  ruled  her  corner  of  the  room  in 
a  sort  of  sweet  and  silent  dignity. 

Dankmere,  who,  innately,  possessed  the  effrontery  of 
a  born  comedian,  for  some  reason  utterly  unknown  to 
himself,  was  inclined  to  be  afraid  of  her — afraid  of  the 
clear  brown  eyes  indifferently  lifted  to  his  when  he  en 
tered — afraid  of  the  quiet  "  Good-morning,  Lord  Dank- 
mere,"  with  which  she  responded  to  his  morning  greet 
ing — afraid  of  her  cool  skilful  little  hands  busy  with 
pencil,  pen,  or  lettered  key — afraid  of  everything  about 
her  from  her  rippling  brown  hair  and  snowy  collar  to 
the  tips  of  her  little  tan  shoes — even  afraid  of  the  back 
of  her  head  when  it  presented  only  a  slender  neck  and 
two  little  rosy,  close-set  ears.  But  he  didn't  mention 
his  state  of  abasement  to  Quarren. 

A  curious  thing  occurred,  too :  Jessie  had  evidently 
been  gay  on  Sunday ;  and,  Monday  noon,  while  out  for 
lunch,  she  had  left  on  her  desk  two  Coney  Island  postal 
cards  decorated  with  her  own  photograph.  When  she 
returned,  one  card  had  vanished ;  and  she  searched 
quietly  but  thoroughly  before  she  left  for  home  that 
evening,  but  she  did  not  find  the  card.  But  she  said 
nothing  about  it. 

The  dreadful  part  of  the  affair  was  that  it  was  theft 
— the  Earl  of  Dankmere's  first  crime. 

Why  he  had  taken  it  he  did  not  know.  The  awful 
impulse  of  kleptomania  alone  seemed  to  explain  but 
scarcely  palliate  his  first  offence  against  society. 

It  was  only  after  he  realised  that  the  picture  and 
Jessie  Vining  vaguely  resembled  his  dead  Countess  that 
his  lordship  began  to  understand  why  he  had  committed 
a  felony  before  he  actually  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

290 


Jessie  Vining. 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

And  one  day  when  Quarren  was  still  out  for  lunch 
and  Jessie  had  returned  to  her  correspondence,  the  terri 
fied  Earl  suddenly  appeared  before  her  holding  out  the 
photograph :  and  she  took  it,  astonished,  her  lifted  eyes 
mutely  inquiring  concerning  the  inwardness  of  this  ex 
traordinary  episode. 

But  Dankmere  merely  fled  to  the  backyard  and  re 
mained  there  all  the  afternoon  smoking  his  head  off ;  and 
it  was  several  days  before  Jessie  had  an  opportunity  to 
find  herself  alone  in  his  vicinity  and  to  ask  him  with 
almost  perfect  self-possession  where  he  had  found  the 
photograph. 

"  I  stole  it,"  said  Dankmere,  turning  bright  red  to 
his  ear-tips. 

"All  she  could  think  of  to  say  was:  "Why?" 

"  It  resembles  my  wife.     So  do  you." 

"  Really,"  she  said  coldly. 

Several  days  later  she  learned  by  the  skilfully  care 
less  questioning  of  Quarren  that  the  Countess  of  Dank- 
mere  had  not  existed  on  earth  for  the  last  ten  years. 

This  news  extenuated  the  Earl's  guilt  in  her  eyes  to 
a  degree  which  permitted  a  slight  emotion  resembling 
pity  to  pervade  her.  And  one  day  she  said  to  him, 
casually  pleasant — "  Would  you  care  for  that  post-card, 
Lord  Dankmere?  If  it  resembles  your  wife  I  would  be 
very  glad  to  return  it  to  you." 

Dankmere,  painfully  red  again,  thanked  her  so  nicely 
that  the  slight,  instinctive  distrust  and  aversion  which, 
in  the  beginning,  she  had  entertained  for  his  lordship, 
suddenly  disappeared  so  entirely  that  it  surprised  her 
when  she  had  leisure  to  think  it  over  afterward. 

So  she  gave  him  the  post-card,  and  next  day  she 
291 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

found  a  rose  in  a  glass  of  water  on  her  desk ;  and  that 
ended  the  incident  for  them  both  except  that  Dankmere 
was  shyer  of  her  than  ever  and  she  was  beginning  to 
realise  that  his  aloof  and  expressionless  deportment  was 
due  to  shyness — which  seemed  to  be  inexplicable  be 
cause  otherwise  timidity  was  scarcely  the  word  to  char 
acterise  his  lively  little  lordship. 

Once,  looking  out  of  the  rear  windows,  through  the 
lace  curtains  she  saw  the  Earl  of  Dankmere  in  the  back 
yard,  gravely  turning  handsprings  on  the  grass  while 
still  smoking  his  pipe.  Once,  entering  the  gallery  un 
expectedly,  she  discovered  the  Earl  standing  at  the 
piano,  playing  a  rattling  breakdown  while  his  nimble 
little  feet  performed  the  same  with  miraculous  agility 
and  professional  precision.  She  withdrew  to  the  front 
door,  hastily,  and  waited  until  the  piano  ceased  from 
rumbling  and  the  Oxfords  were  at  rest,  then  returned 
with  heightened  colour  and  a  stifled  desire  to  laugh 
which  she  disguised  under  an  absent-minded  nod  of 
greeting. 

Meanwhile  one  or  two  pictures  had  been  sold  to 
dealers — not  important  ones — but  the  sales  were  signifi 
cant  enough  to  justify  the  leasing  of  the  basement. 
And  here  Quarren  installed  himself  from  morning  to 
noon  as  apprentice  to  an  old  Englishman  who,  before 
the  failure  of  his  eyesight,  had  amassed  a  little  fortune 
as  surgeon,  physician,  and  trained  nurse  to  old  and  de 
crepit  pictures. 

Not  entirely  unequipped  in  the  beginning,  Quarren 
now  learned  more  about  his  trade — the  guarded  secrets 
of  mediums  and  solvents,  the  composition  of  ancient  and 
modern  canvases,  how  old  and  modern  colours  were 
ground  and  prepared,  how  mixed,  how  applied. 

292 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

He  learned  how  the  old  masters  of  the  various 
schools  of  painting  prepared  a  canvas  or  panel — how 
the  snowy  "  veil  "  was  spread  and  dried,  how  the  under 
painting  was  executed  in  earth-red  and  bone-black,  how 
the  glaze  was  used  and  why,  what  was  the  medium,  what 
the  varnish. 

He  learned  about  the  "  baths  of  sunlight,"  too — 
those  clarifying  immersions  practised  so  openly  vet 
until  recently  not  understood.  He  comprehended  the 
mechanics,  physics,  and  simple  chemistry  of  that  splen 
did,  mysterious  "  inward  glow  "  which  seemed  to  slumber 
under  the  colours  of  the  old  masters  like  the  exquisite 
warmth  in  the  heart  of  a  gem. 

To  him,  little  by  little,  was  revealed  the  only  real 
wonder  of  the  old  masters — their  astonishing  honesty. 
He  began  to  understand  that,  first  of  all,  they  were  self- 
respecting  artisans,  practising  their  trade  of  making 
pictures  and  painting  each  picture  as  well  as  they  knew 
how ;  that,  like  other  artisans,  their  pride  was  in  know 
ing  their  trade,  in  a  mastery  of  their  tools,  and  in  exe 
cuting  commissions  as  honestly  as  they  knew  how  and 
leaving  the  "  art "  to  take  care  of  itself. 

Also  he  learned — for  he  was  obliged  to  learn  in  self- 
protection — the  tricks  and  deceptions  and  forgeries  of 
the  trade — all  that  was  unworthy  about  it,  all  its 
shabby  disguises  and  imitations  and  crude  artifices  and 
cunning  falsehoods. 

He  examined  old  canvases  painted  over  with  old-new 
pictures  and  then  relined;  canvases  showing  portions 
of  original  colour;  old  canvases  and  panels  repainted 
and  artificially  darkened  and  cleverly  covered  with  both 
paint  and  varnish  cracks ;  canvases  that  almost  defied 
detection  by  needle-point  or  glass  or  thumb  fric- 

293 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

tion  or  solvent,  so  ingenious  was  the  forgery  simulat 
ing  age. 

Every  known  adjunct  was  provided  to  carry  out  de 
ception — genuinely  old  canvases  or  panels,  old  stretch 
ers  really  worm-eaten,  aged  frames  of  the  period,  half- 
obliterated  seals  bearing  sometimes  even  the  cross-keys 
of  the  Vatican.  Even,  in  some  cases,  pretence  that  the 
pictures  had  been  cut  from  the  frame  and  presumably 
stolen  was  carried  out  by  a  knife-slashed  and  irregular 
ridge  where  the  canvas  had  actually  been  so  cut  and 
then  sewed  to  a  modern  toile. 

For  forgery  of  art  is  as  old  as  the  Greeks  and  as 
new  as  to-day — the  one  sinister  art  that  perhaps  will 
never  become  a  lost  art;  and  Quarren  and  his  aged 
mentor  in  the  basement  of  the  Dankmere  Galleries  dis 
covered  more  than  enough  frauds  among  the  Dankmere 
family  pictures  showing  how  the  little  Earl's  forebears 
had  once  been  gulled  before  his  present  lordship  lay  in 
his  cradle. 

To  Quarren  the  work  was  fascinating  and,  except 
for  his  increasing  worry  over  Strelsa  Leeds,  would  have 
been  all-absorbing  to  the  degree  of  happiness — or  that 
interested  contentment  which  passes  for  it  on  earth. 

To  see  the  dull  encasing  armour  of  varnish  dis 
appear  from  some  ancient  masterpiece  under  the  thumb, 
as  the  delicate  thumb  of  the  Orient  polishes  lacquer ;  to 
dare  a  solvent  when  needed,  timing  its  strength  to  the 
second  lest  disaster  tarnish  forever  the  exquisite  bloom 
of  the  shrouded  glazing;  to  cautiously  explore  for  sus 
pected  signatures,  to  brood  and  ponder  over  ancient 
records  and  alleged  pedigrees ;  to  compare  prints  and 
mezzotints,  photographs  and  engravings  in  search  for 
identities ;  to  study  threads  of  canvas,  flakes  of  varnish, 

294 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

flinty  globules  of  paint  under  the  microscope;  to  learn, 
little  by  little,  the  technical  manners  and  capricious 
mannerisms  significant  of  the  progress  periods  of  each 
dead  master;  to  pore  over  endless  volumes,  monographs, 
illustrated  foreign  catalogues  of  public  and  private  col 
lections — in  these  things  and  through  them  happiness 
came  to  Quarren. 

Never  a  summer  sun  rose  over  the  streets  of  Ascalcn 
arousing  the  Philistine  to  another  day  of  toil  but  it 
awoke  Quarren  to  the  subdued  excitement  of  another 
day.  Eager,  interested,  content  in  his  self-respect,  he 
went  forth  to  a  daily  business  which  he  cared  about  for 
its  own  sake,  and  wTas  fast  learning  to  care  about  to  the 
point  of  infatuation. 

He  was  never  tired  these  days ;  but  the  summer  heat 
and  lack  of  air  and  exercise  made  him  rather  thin  and 
pale.  Close  work  writh  the  magnifying  glass  had  left 
his  features  slightly  careworn,  and  had  begun  little  con 
verging  lines  at  the  outer  corners  of  his  eyes.  Only 
one  line  in  his  face  expressed  anything  less  happy — the 
commencement  of  a  short  perpendicular  crease  between 
his  eyebrows.  Anxious  pondering  over  old  canvases  was 
not  deepening  that  faint  signature  of  perplexit}^ — or 
the  forerunner  of  Care's  signs  manual  nervously  etched 
from  the  wing  of  either  nostril. 


CHAPTER    XII 

SINCE  Quarren  had  left  Witch-Hollow,  he  and 
Strelsa  had  exchanged  half-a-dozen  letters  of  all  sorts 
— gay,  impersonal  notes,  sober  epistles  reflecting  more 
subdued  moods,  then  letters  fairly  sparkling  with  high 
spirits  and  the  happy  optimism  of  young  people  discov 
ering  that  there  is  more  of  good  than  evil  in  a  world  still 
really  almost  new  to  them.  Then  there  was  a  long  letter 
of  description  and  amusing  narrative  from  her,  in  which, 
here  and  there,  she  became  almost  sentimental  over 
phases  of  rural  beauty;  and  he  replied  at  equal  length 
telling  her  about  his  new  shop-work  in  detail. 

Suddenly  out  of  a  clear  sky,  there  came  from  her  a 
short,  dry,  and  deliberate  letter  mentioning  once  more 
her  critical  worldly  circumstances  and  the  necessity  of 
confronting  them  promptly  and  with  intelligence  and 
decision. 

To  which  he  answered  vigorously,  begging  her  to 
hold  out — either  fit  herself  for  employment — or  throw 
her  fortunes  in  with  his  and  take  the  chances. 

"  Rix  dear,"  she  answered,  "  don't  you  suppose  I 
have  thought  of  that?  But  I  can't  do  it.  There  is 
nothing  left  in  me  to  go  on  with.  I'm  burnt  out — deadly 
tired,  wanting  nothing  more  than  I  shall  have  by  marry 
ing  as  I  must  marry.  For  I  shall  have  you,  too,  as  I 
have  always  had  you.  You  said  so,  didn't  you? 

296 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  What  difference,  then,  does  it  make  to  you  or  me 
whether  or  not  I  am  married  ? 

"  If  you  were  sufficiently  equipped  to  take  care  of 
me,  and  if  I  married  you,  I  could  not  give  you  anything 
more  than  I  have  given  already — I  would  not  wish  to  if 
I  could.  All  that  many  other  women  consider  part  of 
love — all  that  lesser  side  of  it  and  of  marriage  I  could 
not  give  to  you  or  to  any  man — could  not  endure ;  be 
cause  it  is  not  in  me  and  never  has  been.  It  is  foreign 
to  me,  unpleasant,  distasteful — even  hateful. 

"  So  as  I  can  give  you  nothing  more  than  I  have 
given  or  ever  shall  give,  and  as  you  have  given  me  all 
you  can — anyway  all  I  care  for  in  you — let  me  feel  free 
to  seek  my  worldly  salvation  and  find  the  quiet  and  rest 
and  surcease  from  anxiety  which  comes  only  under  such 
circumstances. 

"  You  won't  think  unkindly  of  me,  will  you,  Rix?  I 
don't  know  very  much;  I  amount  to  very  little.  What 
ideals  I  had  are  dead.  Why  should  anybody  bother  to 
agree  or  disagree  with  my  very  unaggressive  opinions 
or  criticise  harshly  a  life  which  has  been  spent  mainly 
in  troubling  the  world  as  little  as  possible? 

"  There  are  a  number  of  people  here — among  them 
several  friends  of  Jim  Wycherly,  all  of  them  aviation- 
mad.  Jim  took  out  the  Stinger,  smashed  the  planes 
and  got  a  fall  which  was  not  very  serious.  Lester  Cal- 
dera  did  the  same  thing  to  the  Kent  biplane  except  that 
he  fell  into  the  river  and  Sir  Charles  and  Chrysos,  in 
the  launch,  fished  him  out — swearing,  they  say. 

"  Vincent  Wier  made  a  fine  flight  in  his  Delatour 
Dragon,  sailing  'round  and  'round  like  a  big  hawk  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  the  wind  came  up  and  he 

297 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

couldn't  land,  and  he  finally  came  down  thirty  miles 
north  of  us  in  a  swamp. 

"  Langly  took  me  for  a  short  flight  in  his  Owlet  No. 
3 — only  two  miles  and  not  very  high,  but  the  sensation 
was  simply  horrid.  I  never  even  cared  for  motoring,  you 
see,  so  the  experience  left  me  most  unenthusiastic, 
greatly  to  Langly's  disgust.  Really,  all  I  care  for  is  a 
decently  gaited  horse — and  I  prefer  to  walk  him  half 
the  time.  There  is  nothing  speedy  about  me,  Rix.  If 
I  ever  had  the  inclination  it's  gone  now. 

"  To  the  evident  displeasure  of  Sir  Charles,  Langly 
took  up  Chrysos  Lacy ;  and  the  child  adored  it.  I  be 
lieve  Sir  Charles  said  something  cutting  to  Langly  in 
his  quiet  and  dry  way  which  has,  apparently,  infuriated 
my  to-be-affianced,  for  he  never  goes  near  Sir  Charles, 
now,  and  that  cold-eyed  gentleman  completely  ignores 
him.  Which  is  not  very  agreeable  for  me. 

"  Oh,  Rix,  there  seems  to  be  so  many  misunderstand 
ings  in  this  exceedingly  small  world  of  ours — rows  in 
numerable,  heartburns,  recriminations,  quarrels  secret 
and  open,  and  endless  misunderstandings. 

"  Please  don't  let  any  come  between  us,  will  you? 
Somehow,  lately,  I  find  myself  looking  on  you  as  a  dis 
tant  but  solid  and  almost  peaceful  refuge  for  my  harried 
thoughts.  And  I'm  so  very,  very  tired  of  being  hunted. 

"  STRELSA." 

"  If  they  hunt  you  too  hard,"  he  wrote  to  Strelsa, 
"  the  gateway  of  my  friendship  is  open  to  you  always : 
remember  that,  now  and  in  the  days  to  come. 

"  What  you  have  written  leaves  me  with  nothing  to 
answer  except  this.  To  all  it  is  given  to  endure  ac 
cording  to  their  strength ;  beyond  it  no  one  can 

298 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

strive ;  but  short  of  its  limits  it's  a  shame  to  show  faint 
heartedness. 

"  About  the  man  you  are  determined  to  marry  I  have 
no  further  word  to  say.  You  know  in  what  repute  he  is 
held  in  your  world,  and  you  believe  that  its  censure  is  un 
just.  There  is  good  in  every  man,  perhaps,  and  perhaps 
the  good  in  this  man  may  show  itself  only  in  response 
to  the  better  qualities  in  you. 

"  Somehow,  without  trying,  you  almost  instantly 
evoke  the  better  qualities  in  me.  You  changed  my  en 
tire  life;  do  you  know  it?  I  myself  scarcely  compre 
hended  why.  Perhaps  the  negative  sweetness  in  you 
concentrated  and  brought  out  the  positive  strength  so 
long  dormant  in  me.  All  I  know  clearly  is  that  you 
came  into  my  life  and  found  a  fool  wasting  it,  capering 
about  in  a  costume  half  livery,  half  motley.  My  ambi 
tion  was  limited  to  my  cap  and  bells ;  my  aspirations 
never  reached  beyond  the  tip  of  my  bauble.  Then  I  saw 
you — and,  all  by  themselves,  my  rags  of  motley  fell 
from  me,  and  something  resembling  a  man  stepped  clear 
of  them. 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  out  of  myself  all  that  there  is 
in  me  to  develop.  It  is  not  much — scarcely  more  than 
the  ability  to  earn  a  living. 

"  I  have  come  to  care  for  nothing  more  than  the 
right  to  look  this  sunny  world  straight  in  the  face.  Until 
I  knew  you  I  had  scarcely  seen  it  except  through  arti 
ficial  light — scarce  heard  its  voice ;  for  the  laughter  of 
your  world  and  the  jingle  of  my  cap  and  bells  drowned 
it  in  my  ass's  ears. 

"  I  could  tell  you — for  in  dark  moments  I  often  be 
lieve  it — that  there  is  only  one  thing  that  counts  in 
the  world — one  thing  worth  having,  worth  giving — love ! 

299 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  But  in  my  heart  I  know  it  is  not  so ;  and  the  ro 
mancers  are  mistaken ;  and  so  is  the  heart  denied. 

"  Better  and  worth  more  than  love  of  man  or  woman 
is  the  mind's  silent  approval — whether  given  in  tran 
quillity  or  accorded  in  dumb  anguish. 

"  Strelsa  dear,  I  shall  always  care  for  you ;  but  I 
have  discovered  that  love  is  another  matter- — higher  or 
lower  as  you  will — but  different.  And  I  do  not  think  I 
shall  be  able  to  love  the  girl  who  does  what  you  are 
decided  to  do.  And  that  does  not  mean  that  I  criticise 
you  or  blame  you,  or  that  my  sympathy,  affection,  in 
terest,  in  you  will  be  less.  On  the  contrary  all  these 
emotions  may  become  keener;  only  one  little  part  will 
die  out,  and  that  without  changing  the  rest — merely 
that  mysterious,  curious,  elusive  and  illogical  atom  in 
the  unstable  molecule,  which  we  call  love — and  which, 
when  separated,  leaves  the  molecule  changed  only  in 
name.  We  call  it  friendship,  then. 

"  And  this  is,  I  think,  what  you  would  most  desire. 
So  when  you  do  what  you  have  determined  to  do,  I  will 
really  become  toward  you  what  you  are — and  have  al 
ways  been — toward  me.  And  could  either  of  us  ask 
for  more? 

"  Only — forgive  me — I  wish  it  had  been  Sir  Charles 
— or  almost  any  other  man.  But  that  is  for  your  de 
cision.  Strelsa  governs  and  alone  is  responsible  to 
Strelsa. 

"  Meanwhile  do  not  doubt  my  affection — do  not  fear 
unkindness,  judgment,  or  criticism.  I  wish  I  were  what 
you  cared  for  most  in  the  world — after  the  approval  of 
your  own  mind.  I  wish  you  cared  for  me  not  only  as 
you  do  but  with  all  that  has  never  been  aroused  in  you. 
For  without  that  I  am  helpless  to  fight  for  you. 

300 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  So,  in  your  own  way,  you  will  live  life  through, 
knowing  that  in  me  you  will  always  have  an  unchanged 
friend — even  though  the  lover  died  when  you  became  a 
wife.  Is  all  clear  between  us  now  ? 

"  If  you  are  ever  in  town,  or  passing  through  to 
Newport  or  Bar  Harbour,  stop  and  inspect  our  gallery. 

"  It  is  really  quite  pretty  and  some  of  the  pictures 
are  excellent.  You  should  see  it  now — sunlight  slant 
ing  in  through  the  dusty  bay-window,  Dankmere  at  a 
long  polished  table  doing  his  level  best  to  assemble  cer 
tain  old  prints  out  of  a  portfolio  containing  nearly  a 
thousand;  pretty  little  Miss  Vining,  pencil  in  hand, 
checking  off  at  her  desk  the  reference  books  we  require 
in  our  eternal  hunt  for  information;  I  below  stairs  in 
overalls  if  you  please,  paint  and  varnish  stained,  a 
jeweller's  glass  screwed  into  my  left  eye,  examining  an 
ancient  panel  which  I  strongly  hope  may  have  been  the 
work  of  a  gentleman  named  Bronzino — for  its  mate  is 
almost  certainly  the  man  in  armour  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum. 

"  Strelsa,  it  is  the  most  exciting  business  I  ever 
dreamed  of.  And  the  beauty  of  it  is  that  it  leads  out 
into  everything — stretches  a  thousand  sensitive  tenta 
cles  which  grasp  at  knowledge  of  beauty  everywhere 
— whether  it  lie  in  the  sombre  splendour  of  the  tapes 
tries  of  Bayeux,  of  Italy,  of  Flanders ;  or  deep  in  the 
woven  magnificence  of  some  dead  Sultan's  palace  rug; 
or  in  the  beauty  of  the  work  of  silversmiths,  gold 
smiths,  of  sculptors  in  ivory  or  in  wood  long  dead;  or 
in  the  untinted  marbles  of  the  immortal  masters. 

"  Never  before  did  I  understand  how  indissolubly 
all  arts  are  linked,  how  closely  and  eternally  knit  to- 

301  * 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

gether  in  the  vast  fabric  fashioned  by  man  from  the 
beginning  of  time,  and  in  the  cryptograms  of  which  lie 
buried  all  that  man  has  ever  thought  and  hoped. 

"  My  cat,  Daisy,  recently  presented  the  Dankmere 
Galleries  with  five  squeaking  kittens  of  assorted  colour 
and  design.  Their  eyes  are  now  open. 

"  Poor  Daisy !  It  seems  only  yesterday  when, 
calmly  purring  on  my  knee,  she  heard  for  the  first  time 
in  her  innocent  life  a  gentleman  cat  begin  an  intermezzo 
on  the  back  fence. 

"  Never  before  had  Daisy  heard  such  amazing  lan 
guage:  she  rose,  astounded,  listening;  then,  giving  me 
one  wild  glance,  fled  under  the  piano.  I  shied  an  empty 
bottle  at  the  moon-lit  minstrel ;  and  I  supposed  that 
Daisy  approved.  But  man  supposes  and  cat  proposes 
and — Daisy's  kittens  are  certainly  ornamental.  Dank- 
mere  carries  one  in  each  pocket,  Daisy  trotting  at  his 
heels  with  an  occasional  little  exclamation  of  solicitude 
and  pride. 

"  Really  we're  a  funny  lot  here  in  the  Dankmere 
Galleries — not  superficially  business-like  perhaps,  for 
we  close  at  five  and  have  tea  in  the  extension,  Dankmere, 
Miss  Vining,  I,  Daisy,  and  her  young  ones — Daisy  and 
the  latter  taking  their  nourishment  together  in  a  basket 
which  Miss  Vining  has  lined  with  blue  silk. 

"  In  the  evenings  sometimes  Miss  Vining  remains  and 
dines  with  Dankmere  and  myself  at  some  near  restau 
rant;  and  after  dinner  Karl  Westguard  comes  in  and 
reads  the  most  recent  chapter  of  his  novel — or  perhaps 
Dankmere  plays  and  sings  old-time  songs  for  us — or, 
if  the  heat  makes  us  feel  particularly  futile,  I  perform 
some  of  those  highly  intellectual  tricks  which  once  made 

302 


"'In  the  evenings  sometimes  Miss  Vining  remains  and  dines 


with  Dankmere  and  myself  at  some  near  restaurant.'" 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

me  acceptable  among  people  I  now  seldom  or  never 
see. 

"  Miss  Vining,  as  I  have  already  told  you  in  other 
letters,  is  a  sweet,  sincere  girl  with  no  pretence  to  any 
thing  out  of  the  ordinary  yet  blessed  with  a  delicate 
sense  of  honour  and  incidentally  of  humour. 

"  She  is  quite  alone  in  the  world,  and,  now  that  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  about  Dankmere  and  me  I  can 
see  that  she  shyly  enjoys  our  including  her  in  our  harm 
less  informalities. 

"  Westguard  is  immensely  interested  in  her  as  a 
'  type,'  and  he  informs  me  that  he  is  '  studying  '  her. 
Which  is  more  or  less  bosh ;  but  Karl  loves  to  take  him 
self  seriously. 

"  Nobody  you  know  has  been  to  see  us.  It  may  be 
because  your  world  is  out  of  town,  but  I'm  beginning  to 
believe  that  the  Dankmere  Galleries  need  expect  no  pa 
tronage  from  that  same  world.  Friendship  usually  fights 
shy  of  the  frontiers  of  business.  Old  acquaintanceship 
is  forgot  very  quickly  when  one  side  or  the  other  has 
anything  to  sell.  Only  those  thrifty  imitations  of 
friends  venture  near  in  quest  of  special  privilege ;  and 
not  getting  it,  go,  never  to  return.  Ubi  amid,  ibi  opes! 

"  When  you  pass  through  this  furnace  of  Ascalon 
called  New  York  will  you  stop  among  the  Philistines 
long  enough  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  us  ? — I'll  show  you 
the  pictures ;  Dankmere  will  play  '  Shannon  Water  '  for 
you;  Miss  Vining  will  talk  pretty  platitudes  to  you, 
Daisy  will  purr  for  you,  and  the  painted  eyes  of  Dank- 
mere's  ancestors  will  look  down  approvingly  at  you 
from  the  wall;  and  all  our  little  world  will  know  that 
the  loveliest  and  best  of  all  the  greater  world  is  break- 
SOS 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ing  bread  with  us  under  our  roof,  and  that  one  for  once, 
unlike  man's  dealings  with  your  celestial  sisters,  our  en 
tertainment  of  you  will  not  be  wholly  unawares. 

"R.   S.  QUARREN." 

The  basement  workshop  was  aromatic  with  the 
odours  of  solvents,  mediums,  and  varnishes  when  he  re 
turned  from  posting  his  letter  to  Strelsa.  His  old  Eng 
lish  mentor  had  departed  for  good,  leaving  him  to  go 
forward  alone  in  his  profession. 

And  now,  as  he  stood  there,  looking  out  into  the 
sunny  backyard,  for  the  first  time  he  felt  the  silence  and 
isolation  of  the  place,  and  his  own  loneliness.  Doubt 
crept  in  whispering  the  uselessness  of  working,  of  sav 
ing,  of  self-denial,  of  laying  by  anything  for  a  future 
that  already  meant  nothing  of  happiness  to  him. 

For  whom,  after  all,  should  he  save,  hoard,  gather 
together,  economise?  Who  was  there  to  labour  for? 
For  whom  should  he  endure? 

He  cared  nothing  for  women;  he  had  really  never 
cared  for  any  woman  excepting  only  this  one.  He  would 
never  marry  and  have  a  son.  He  had  no  near  or  dis 
tant  relatives.  For  whose  sake,  then,  was  he  standing 
here  in  workman's  overalls  ?  What  business  had  he  here 
in  the  basement  of  a  shabby  house  in  midsummer?  Did 
there  remain  any  vague  hope  of  Strelsa?  Perhaps. 
Hope  is  the  last  of  one's  friends  to  die.  Or  was  it  for 
himself  that  he  was  working  now  to  provide  against 
those  evil  days  "  when  the  keepers  of  the  house  shall 
tremble"?  Perhaps  he  was  unconsciously  obeying 
nature's  first  law. 

And  yet,  slowly  within  him  grew  a  certainty  that 
these  reasons  were  not  the  real  ones — not  the  vital  im- 

304 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

pulse  that  moved  his  hand  steadily  through  critical  and 
delicate  moments  as  he  bent,  breathless,  over  the  faded 
splendours  of  ancient  canvases.  No ;  somehow  or  other 
he  had  already  begun  to  work  for  the  sake  of  the  work 
itself — whatever  that  really  meant.  That  was  the  basic 
impulse — the  occult  motive ;  and,  somehow  he  knew  that, 
once  aroused,  the  desire  to  strive  could  never  again  in 
him  remain  wholly  quiescent. 

Both  Dankmere  and  Miss  Vining  had  gone  to  lunch, 
presumably  in  different  directions ;  Daisy  and  her 
youngsters,  having  been  nourished,  were  asleep;  there 
was  not  a  sound  in  the  house  except  the  soft  rubbing  of 
tissue-paper  where  Quarren  was  lightly  removing  the 
retouching  varnish  from  a  relined  canvas.  Presently 
the  front  door-bell  rang. 

Quarren  rinsed  his  hands  and,  still  wearing  overalls 
and  painter's  blouse,  mounted  the  basement  stairs  and 
opened  the  front  door.  And  Mrs.  Sprowl  supported  by 
a  footman  waddled  in,  panting. 

"  Tell  your  master  I  want  to  see  him,"  she  said — 
"  I  don't  mean  that  fool  of  an  Englishman ;  I  mean  Mr. 
Quar —  Good  Lord!  Ricky,  is  that  you?  Here,  get 
me  a  chair — those  front  steps  nearly  killed  me.  Long 
ago  I  swore  I'd  never  enter  a  house  which  was  not  base 
ment-built  and  had  an  elevator!  .  .  .  Hand  me  one  of 
those  fans.  And  if  there's  any  water  in  the  house  not 
swarming  with  typhoid  germs,  get  me  a  glass  of  it." 

He  brought  her  a  tumbler  of  spring  water;  she 
panted  and  gulped  and  fanned  and  panted,  her  little 
green  eyes  roaming  around  her. 

Presently  she  dismissed  the  footman,  and  turned  her 
heavily  flushed  face  on  Quarren.  The  rolls  of  fat 

305 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

crowded  the  lace  on  her  neck,  perspiration  glistened  un- 
*  der  her  sparklike  eyes. 

"  How  are  you?  "  she  inquired. 

He  said,  smilingly,  that  he  was  well. 

"  You  don't  look  it.  You  look  gaunt.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
never  thought  you'd  come  to  this — that  you  had  it  in 
you  to  do  anything  useful." 

"  I  believe  I've  heard  you  say  so  now  and  then,"  he- 
said  with  perfect  good-humour. 

"  Why  not  ?  Why  should  I  have  thought  that  your 
talents  amounted  to  more  than  ornaments  ?  " 

"  No  reason  to  suppose  so,"  he  admitted,  amused. 

"  Not  the  slightest.  Talent  usually  damns  people 
to  an  effortless  existence.  And  yours  was  a  pleasant 
one,  too.  You  had  a  good  time,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very." 

"  There  was  nothing  to  do  except  to  come  in,  kiss 
the  girls  all  around,  and  make  faces  to  amuse  them,  was 
there?" 

"  Not  much  more,"  he  admitted,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Sprowl's  little  green  eyes  travelled  all  over  the 
walls. 

"  Umph,"  she  snorted,  "  I  suppose  these  are  some  of 
Dankmere's  heirlooms.  I  never  fancied  that  little 
bounder " 

"  Wait !  " 

"  What !  " 

"  Wait  a  moment.  I  like  Dankmere,  and  he  isn't  a 
bounder — 

"  He  is  one !  " 

"  Keep  that  opinion  to  yourself,"  he  said  bluntly. 

The  old  lady's  eyes  blazed.     "  I'm  damned  if  I  do !  " 

she  retorted — "  I'll  say  what " 

306 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

"  Not  here !  You  mustn't  be  uncivil  here.  You 
know  well  enough  how  to  behave  when  necessary ;  and  if 
you  don't  do  it  I'll  call  your  carriage." 

For  fully  five  minutes  Mrs.  Sprowl  sat  there  at 
tempting  to  digest  what  he  had  said.  The  process  was 
-awful  to  behold,  but  she  accomplished  it  at  last  with  a 
violent  effort. 

"  Ricky,"  she  said,  "  I  didn't  come  here  to  quarrel 
with  you  over  an  Englishman  who — of  whom  I — have 
;my  personal  opinion." 

He  laughed,  leaned  over  and  deliberately  patted  her 
fat  wrist ;  and  she  glared  at  him  somewhat  as  a  tigress 
inspects  a  favourite  but  overgrown  and  presuming  cub. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  came,"  he  said,  "  but  it  was 
nice  of  you  anyway  and  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  If  that's  true,"  she  said,  "  you're  one  of  mighty 
few.  The  joy  which  people  feel  in  my  presence  is  usually 
•exhibited  when  I'm  safely  out  of  their  houses,  or  they 
are  out  of  mine." 

She  laughed  at  that ;  and  he  did  too ;  and  she  gulped 
her  glass  of  water  empty  and  refused  more. 

"  Ricky,"  she  began  abruptly,  "  you've  been  up  to 
that  Witch-Hollow  place  of  Molly's?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  what  the  devil  is  going  on  there  ?  " 

"  Aviation,"  he  said  blandly. 

"What  else?  Don't  evade  an  answer!  I  can't  get 
anything  out  of  that  little  idiot,  Molly;  I  can't  worm 
anything  out  of  Sir  Charles ;  I  can't  learn  anything 
from  Strelsa  Leeds;  and  as  for  Langly  he  won't  even 
answer  my  letters. 

"  Now  I  want  to  know  what  is  going  on  there?  I've 
been  as  short  with  Strelsa  as  I  dare  be — she's  got  to  be 

307 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

led  with  sugar.  I've  almost  ordered  her  to  come  to  me 
at  Newport — but  she  doesn't  come." 

"  She's  resting,"  said  Quarren  coolly. 

"  Hasn't  she  had  time  to  rest  in  that  dingy,  dead- 
and-alive  place?  And  what  keeps  Langly  there?  He 
has  nothing  to  look  at  except  a  few  brood-mares.  Do 
you  suppose  he  has  the  bad  taste  to  hang  around  wait 
ing  for  Chester  Ledwith  to  get  out  and  Mary  Ledwith 
to  return?  Or  is  it  something  else  that  glues  him  there 
— with  the  Yulan  in  the  North  River?  " 

Quarren  shrugged  his  lack  of  interest  in  the  subject. 

"  If  I  thought,"  muttered  the  old  lady — "  if  I  im 
agined  for  one  moment  that  Langly  was  daring  to  try 
any  of  his  low,  cold-blooded  tricks  on  Strelsa  Leeds, 
I'd  go  up  there  myself — I'd  take  the  next  train  and 
tell  that  girl  plainly  what  kind  of  a  citizen  my  charm 
ing  nephew  really  is !  " 

Quarren  was  silent. 

"  Why  the  dickens  don't  you  say  something?  "  she 
demanded.  "  I  want  to  know  whether  I  ought  to  go  up 
there  or  not.  Have  you  ever  observed — have  you  ever 
suspected  that  there  might  be  anything  between  Langly 
and  Strelsa  Leeds? — any  tacit  understanding — any  in 
terest  on  her  part  in  him  ?  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  answer 
me?" 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  it's  none  of  your  busi 
ness  what  I  believe." 

"  Am  I  to  take  that  impudence  literally?  " 

"  Exactly  as  I  said  it.  You  asked  improper  ques 
tions  ;  I  am  obliged  to  remind  you  that  you  cannot 
expect  me  to  answer  them." 

"  Why  can't  you  speak  of  Langly  ?  " 

"  Because  what  concerns  him  does  not  concern  me." 
308 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  Strelsa,"  she  said 
bluntly. 

"  If  I  were,  do  you  imagine  I'd  discuss  it  with 
you?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what !  "  she  shouted,  purple  with  rage, 
"  you  might  do  a  damn  sight  worse !  I'd — I'd  rather 
see  her  your  wife  than  his ! — and  God  knows  what  he 
wants  of  her  at  that — as  Mary  Ledwith  has  first  call  or 
the  world  will  turn  Langly  out  of  doors !  " 

Quarren,   slightly  paler,   looked  at  her  in   silence. 

"  I  tell  you  the  world  will  spit  in  his  face,"  she  said 
between  her  teeth,  "  if  he  doesn't  make  good  with  Mary 
Ledwith  after  what  he's  done  to  her  and  her  husband." 

"  He  has  too  much  money,"  said  Quarren.  "  Besides 
there's  an  ordinance  against  it." 

"  You  watch  and  see !  Some  things  are  too  rotten 
to  be  endured " 

"What?  I  haven't  noticed  any  either  abroad  or 
here.  Anyway  it  doesn't  concern  me." 

"  Don't  you  care  for  that  girl?  " 

"  We  are  friends." 

"  Friends,  eh!  "  she  mimicked  him  wickedly,  plying 
her  fan  like  a  madwoman ;  "  well  I  fancy  I  know  what 
sort  of  friendship  has  made  you  look  ten  years  older  in 
half  a  year.  Oh,  Ricky,  Ricky !  " — she  added  with  an 
abrupt  change  of  feeling — "  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I  like 
you  even  when  you  are  impertinent  to  me — and  you 
know  I  do  f  But  I — my  heart  is  set  on  her  marrying  Sir 
Charles.  You  know  it  is.  Could  anything  on  earth  be 
more  suitable  ? — happier  for  her  as  well  as  for  him  ?  Isn't 
he  a  man  where  Langly  is  a — a  toad,  a  cold-blooded 
worm  ! — a — a  thing ! 

"  I  tell  you  my  heart's  set  on  it ;  there  is  nothing  else 
309 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

interests  me;  I  think  of  nothing  else,  care  for  nothing 
else " 

"Why?" 

"  What?  "  she  said,  suddenly  on  her  guard. 

"  Why  do  you  care  for  it  so  much  ?  " 

"Why?     That  is  an  absurd  question." 

"  Then  answer  it  without  taking  time  to  search  for 
any  reason  except  the  real  one." 

"  Ricky,  you  insolent " 

"  Never  mind.  Answer  me ;  why  are  you  so  absorbed 
in  this  marriage?  " 

She  said  with  a  calmly  contemptuous  shrug :  "  Be 
cause  Sir  Charles  is  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  I  am 
fond  of  them  both." 

"  Is  that  sufficient  reason  for  such  strenuous  and 
persistent  efforts  on  your  part?  " 

"  That — and  hatred  for  Langly,"  she  said  stolidly. 

"  Just  those  three  reasons  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     Just  those  three." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Do  you  disbelieve  me  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  am  compelled  to — knowing  that  never  in  all  your 
life  have  you  made  the  slightest  effort  in  behalf  of 
friendship — never  inconvenienced  yourself  in  the  least 
for  the  sake  of  anybody  on  earth." 

She  stared  at  him,  amazed,  then  angry,  then  burst 
into  a  loud  laugh ;  but,  even  while  laughing  her  fat  fea 
tures  suddenly  altered  as  though  pain  had  cut  mirth 
short. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  said. 

"  Nothing.  .  .  .  You  are  the  matter.  .  .  .  I've 
always  been  fool  enough  to  take  you  for  a  fool.  You 
were  the  only  one  among  us  clever  enough  to  read  us 

310 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  remain  unread.  God !  If  only  some  of  us  could  see 
what  we  look  like  in  the  archives  of  your  brain!  .  .  . 
Let  it  go  at  that ;  I  don't  care  what  I  look  like  as  long 
as  it's  a  friendly  hand  that  draws  my  features.  .  .  . 
I'm  an  old  woman,  remember.  .  .  .  And  it  is  a  friendly 
pencil  you  wield,  isn't  it,  Ricky?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  believe  it.  I  never  knew  you  to  do  or  say  a  de 
liberately  unkind  thing.  I  never  knew  you  to  abuse  a 
confidence,  either.  .  .  .  And  you  were  the  receptacle 
for  many — Heaven  only  knows  how  many  trivial,  petty, 
miserable  little  intrigues  you  were  made  aware  of,  or 
how  many  secret  kindnesses  you  have  done.  .  .  .  Let 
that  go,  too.  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

She  motioned  him  nearer ;  she  was  too  stout  to  lean 
far  forward:  and  he  placed  his  chair  beside  hers. 

"  Do  you  know  where  and  when  Sir  Charles  first 
saw  Strelsa  Leeds  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  In  Egypt.  She  was  the  wife  of  the  charming  and 
accomplished  Reggie  at  the  time." 

"  I  know." 

"  Did  you  know  that  Sir  Charles  fell  in  love  with 
her  then?  That  he  never  forgot  her?  That  when  Reg 
gie  finally  took  his  last  header  into  the  ditch  he  had 
been  riding  for,  Sir  Charles  came  to  me  in  America  and 
asked  what  was  best  to  do?  That  on  my  advice  he 
waited  until  I  managed  to  draw  the  girl  out  of  her  re 
tirement?  That  then,  on  my  advice,  he  returned  to 
America  to  offer  himself  when  the  proper  time  arrived  ? 
Did  you  know  these  things,  Rix?  " 

"  No,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  know  them  now." 
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THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Yes,  I —  '  he  hesitated,  looking  straight  at  her 
in  silence.  And  after  a  while  a  slight  colour  not  due  to 
the  heat  deepened  the  florid  hue  of  her  features. 

"  I  knew  Sir  Charles's  father,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
so  modulated — a  voice  so  unexpected  and  almost  pretty, 
that  he  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  she  who  had 
spoken. 

"  You  said,"  she  went  on  under  her  breath,  "  that 
in  all  my  life  friendship  has  never  inspired  in  me  a  kindly 
action.  You  are  wrong,  Rix.  In  the  matter  of  this 
marriage  my  only  inspiration  is  friendship — the  friend 
ship  I  had  for  a  man  who  is  dead.  .  .  .  Sir  Charles  is 
his  only  son." 

Quarren  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  I  was  young  once,  Ricky.  I  suppose  you  can 
scarcely  believe  that.  Life  and  youth  began  early  for 
me — and  lasted  a  little  more  than  a  year — and  then  they 
both  burnt  out  in  my  heart — leaving  the  rest  of  me 
alive — this  dross ! — "  She  touched  herself  on  her 
bosom,  then  lowered  her  eyes,  and  sat  thinking  for  a 
while. 

Daisy  walked  into  the  room  and  seated  herself  in  a 
bar  of  sunlight,  pleasantly  blinking  her  yellow  eyes. 
Mrs.  Sprowl  glanced  at  her  absently,  and  they  eyed 
each  other  in  silence. 

Then  the  larger  of  the  pair  drew  a  thick,  uneasy 
breath,  looked  up  at  Quarren,  all  the  cunning  and  hard 
ness  gone  from  her  heavy  features. 

"  I've  only  been  trying  to  do  for  a  dead  man's  son 
what  might  have  pleased  that  man  were  he  alive,"  she 
said.  "  Sir  Charles  was  a  little  lad  when  he  died.  But 
he  left  a  letter  for  him  to  read  when  he  was  grown  up. 
I  never  saw  the  letter,  but  Sir  Charles  has  told  me  that, 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

in  it,  his  father  spoke — amiably — of  me  and  said  that 
in  me  his  son  would  always  find  a  friend.  .  .  .  That  is 
all,  Rix.  Do  you  believe  me?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then— should  I  go  to  Witch-Hollow?" 

"  I  can't  answer  you." 

"Why?" 

"  Because — because  I  care  for  her  too  much.  And 
I  can  do  absolutely  nothing  for  her.  I  could  not  swerve 
her  or  direct  her.  She  alone  knows  what  is  in  her  heart 
and  mind  to  do.  I  cannot  alter  it.  She  will  act  ac 
cording  to  her  strength ;  none  can  do  otherwise.  .  .  . 
And  she  is  tired  to  the  very  soul.  .  .  .  You  tell  me  that 
life  and  youth  in  you  died  within  a  year's  space.  I  be 
lieve  it.  ...  But  with  her  it  took  two  years  to  die. 
And  then  it  died.  .  .  .  Let  her  alone,  in  God's  name ! 
The  child  is  weary  of  pursuit,  deathly  weary  of  impor 
tunity — tired,  sad,  frightened  at  the  disaster  to  her  for 
tune.  Let  her  alone.  If  she  marries  it  will  be  because 
of  physical  strength  lacking — strength  of  character, 
of  mind — perhaps  moral,  perhaps  spiritual  strength — • 
I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that  no  man  or  woman  can 
help  her,  because  the  world  has  bruised  her  too  long  and 
she's  afraid  of  it." 

For  a  long  while  Mrs.  Sprowl  sat  there  in  silence ; 
then : 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  mused,  "  that  Strelsa  should 
be  afraid  of  Sir  Charles." 

"  I  don't  think  she  is." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  won't  she  marry  him?  He  is 
richer  than  Langly  !  " 

Quarren  looked  at  her  oddly : 

"  But  Sir  Charles  is  her  friend,  you  see.  And  so 
313 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

am  I.  ...  Friends  do  not  make  a  convenience  of  one 
another." 

"  She  could  learn  to  love  him.  He  is  a  lovable 
fellow." 

"  I  think,"  said  Quarren,  "  that  she  has  given  to  him 
and  to  me  all  that  there  is  in  her  to  give  to  any  man. 
And  so,  perhaps,  she  could  not  make  the  convenience  of 
a  husband  out  of  either  of  us." 

"  What  a  twisted,  ridiculous,  morbid " 

"  Let  her  alone,"  he  said  gently. 

"Very  well.  ...  But  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  let 
Langly  alone!  He's  still  got  me  to  deal  with,  thank 
God ! — whatever  he  dares  do  to  Mary  Ledwith — what 
ever  he  has  done  to  that  wretched  creature  Chester  Led 
with — he's  still  got  a  perfectly  vigorous  aunt  to  reckon 
with.  And  we'll  see,"  she  added — "  we'll  see  what  can 
be  done " 

The  front  door  opened  noisily. 

"  That's  Dankmere,"  he  said.  "  If  you  are  not 
going  to  be  civil  to  him  hadn't  you  better  go  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  civil  to  him,"  she  snorted,  "  but  I'm  going 
anyway.  Good-bye,  Ricky.  I'll  buy  a  picture  of  you 
when  the  weather's  cooler.  .  .  .  How-de-do !  " — as  his 
lordship  entered  looking  rather  hot  and  mussy — "  Hope 
your  venture  into  the  realms  of  art  will  prove  successful, 
Lord  Dankmere.  Really,  Rix,  I  must  be  going — if 
you'll  call  my  man — 

"  I'll  take  you  down,"  he  said,  smilingly  offering  his 
support. 

So  Mrs.  Sprowl  rolled  away  in  her  motor,  and  Quar 
ren  came  back,  wearied  with  the  perplexities  and  strain 
of  life,  to  face  once  more  the  lesser  problems  of  the  im 
mediate  present :  one  of  them  was  an  ancient  panel  in  the 

314 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

basement,  and  he  went  downstairs  to  solve  it,  leaving 
Dankmere  sorting  out  old  prints  and  Jessie  Vining,  who 
had  just  returned,  writing  business  letters  on  her  ma 
chine. 

There  were  not  many  business  letters  to  write — one 
to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  people  declining  to  pre 
sent  them  with  a  charming  little  picture  by  Netscher 
which  they  wanted  but  did  not  wish  to  pay  for ;  one  to 
the  Worcester  Museum  advising  that  progressive  insti 
tution  that,  at  the  request  of  their  director,  four  can 
vases  had  been  shipped  to  them  for  inspection;  several 
letters  enclosing  photographs  of  pictures  desired  by  for 
eign  experts ;  and  a  notification  to  one  or  two  local 
millionaires  that  the  Dankmere  Galleries  never  shaded 
prices  or  exchanged  canvases. 

Having  accomplished  the  last  f  the  day's  work  re 
maining  up  to  that  particular  minute,  Jessie  Vining 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  rubbed  her  pretty  eyes,  glanced 
partly  around  toward  Lord  Dankmere  but  checked  her 
self,  and,  with  her  lips  the  slightest  shade  pursed  up 
into  a  hint  of  primness,  picked  up  the  library  novel 
which  she  had  been  reading  during  intervals  of  leisure. 

It  was  mainly  about  a  British  Peer.  The  Peer  did 
not  resemble  Dankmere  in  any  particular;  she  had 
already  noticed  that.  And  now,  as  she  read  on,  and, 
naturally  enough,  compared  the  ideal  peer  with  the  real 
one,  the  difference  became  painfully  plain  to  her. 

Could  that  short  young  man  in  rather  mussy  sum 
mer  clothes,  sorting  prints  over  there,  be  a  peer  of  the 
British  realm?  Was  this  young  man,  whom  she  had 
seen  turning  handsprings  on  the  grass  in  the  backyard, 
a  belted  Earl? 

In  spite  of  herself  her  short  upper  lip  curled  slightly 
315 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

as  she  turned  from  her  book  to  glance  at  him.  He 
looked  up  at  the  same  moment,  and  smiled  on  meeting 
her  eye — such  a  kindly  yet  diffident  smile  that  she 
blushed  a  trifle. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Vining,  I've  gone  over  all  these  prints 
and  I  can't  find  one  that  resembles  the  Hogarth  por 
trait — if  it  is  a  Hogarth." 

"  Mr.  Quarren  thinks  it  is." 

"  I  daresay  he's  quite  right,  but  there's  nothing  here 
to  prove  it  " ;  and  he  slapped  the  huge  portfolio  shut, 
laid  his  hands  on  the  table,  vaulted  to  the  top  of  it,  and 
sat  down.  Miss  Vining  resumed  her  reading. 

"Miss  Vining?" 

"  Yes  ?  "  very  leisurely. 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon " 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  Really  I  hadn't  thought  about  it,  Lord  Dank- 
mere." 

"  Oh." 

Miss  Vining  resumed  her  reading. 

When  the  Earl  had  sat  on  top  of  the  table  long 
enough  he  got  down  and  dropped  into  the  depths  of 
an  arm-chair. 

"  Miss  Vining,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ?  "  incuriously. 

"  Have  you  thought  it  out  yet?  " 

"  Thought  out  what,  Lord  Dankmere?  " 

"  How  old  I  am." 

"  Really,"  she  retorted,  half  laughing,  half  vexed, 
"  do  you  suppose  that  my  mind  is  occupied  in  wonder 
ing  what  your  age  might  be?  " 

"Isn't  it?" 

316 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

She  began  to  laugh  again : 

"  Why,  if  you  wish  to  tell  me  of  course  it  will  inter 
est  me  most  profoundly."  And  she  made  him  a  graceful 
little  bow. 

"  I'm  thirty-three,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  me." 

"  You  are  welcome,"  he  returned  gravely.  "  Do  you 
think  I'm  too  old?" 

"Too  old  for  what?" 

"  Oh,  for  anything  interesting." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  interesting  '  ?  " 

But  Lord  Dankmere  apparently  did  not  know  what 
he  did  mean  for  he  made  no  answer. 

After  a  little  while  he  said :  "  Wouldn't  it  be  odd  if 
I  ever  have  income  enough  to  pay  off  my  debts  ?  " 

"What?" 

He  repeated  the  observation. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  You  naturally  ex 
pect  to  pay  them,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  saw  no  chance  of  doing  so  before  Mr.  Quarren 
took  hold  of  these  pictures." 

She  was  sorry  for  him: 

"  Are  you  very  deeply  in  debt  ?  " 

He  named  the  total  of  his  liabilities  and  she  straight 
ened  her  young  shoulders,  horrified. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  said.  "  I  know  plenty  of 
chaps  in  England  who  are  far  worse  off." 

"  But— that  is  terrible  !  "  she  faltered. 

Dankmere  waved  his  hand: 

"  It's  not  so  bad.  That  show  business  let  me  in  for 
a  lot." 

317 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Why  did  you  ever  do  it?  " 

"  I  like  it,"  he  explained  simply. 

She  flushed :  "  It  seems  strange  for  a — a  man  of 
your  kind  to  sing  comic  songs  and  dance  before  an  au 
dience." 

"  Not  at  all.  I've  a  friend,  Exford  by  name — who 
goes  about  grinding  a  barrel-organ." 

"Why?" 

"  He  likes  to  do  it.  ...  I've  another  pal  of  sorts 
who  chucked  the  Guards  to  become  a  milliner.  He 
always  did  like  to  crochet  and  trim  hats.  Why  not? — 
if  he  likes  it !  " 

"  It  is  not,"  said  Jessie  Vining,  "  my  idea  of  a  Brit 
ish  peer." 

"  But  for  Heaven's  sake,  consider  the  peer !  Now 
and  then  they  have  an  idea  of  what  they'd  like  to  do. 
Why  not  let  them  do  it  and  be  happy  ?  " 

"  Then  they  ought  not  to  have  been  born  to  the 
peerage,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  Many  of  them  wouldn't  have  been  had  anybody 
consulted  them." 

"You?" 

"  It's  brought  me  nothing  but  debt,  ridicule,  abuse, 
and  summonses." 

"You  couldn't  resign,  could  you?"  she  said, 
smiling. 

"  I  am  resigned.  Oh,  well,  I'd  rather  be  what  I  am 
than  anything  else,  I  fancy.  ...  If  the  Topeka  Mu 
seum  trustees  purchase  that  Gainsborough  I'll  be  out  of 
debt  fast  enough." 

"  And  then  ?  "   she  inquired,  still  smiling. 

"  I  don't  know.     I'd  like  to  start  another  show." 

"  And  leave  Mr.  Quarren  ?  " 
318 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"What  use  am  I?  We'd  share  alike;  he'd  manage 
the  business  and  I'd  manage  a  musical  comedy  I'm  writ 
ing  after  hours " 

He  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  piano  where  for  the 
next  ten  minutes  he  rattled  off  some  lively  and  very 
commonplace  music  which  to  Jessie  Vining  sounded  like 
everything  she  had  ever  before  heard. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  he  asked  hopefully,  swinging 
around  on  his  stool. 

"  It's— lively." 

"  You  dont  like  it !  " 

"  I — it  seems — very  entertaining,"  she  said,  red 
dening. 

The  Earl  sat  looking  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  said: 

"  To  care  for  anything  and  make  a  failure  of  it — 
can  you  beat  it  for  straight  misery,  Miss  Vining?  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't  speak  that  way.  I  really  am  no 
judge  of  musical  composition." 

He  considered  the  key-board  gloomily;  and  resting 
one  well-shaped  hand  on  it  addressed  empty  space : 

"  What's  the  use  of  liking  to  do  a  thing  if  you  can't 
do  it?  Why  the  deuce  should  a  desire  torment  a  man 
when  there's  no  chance  of  accomplishment  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  out  of  her  pretty,  distressed 
eyes  but  found  no  words  suitable  for  the  particular 
moment. 

Dankmere  dropped  the  other  hand  on  the  keys, 
touched  a  chord  or  two  softly,  then  drifted  into  the  old- 
time  melody,  "  Shannon  Water." 

His  voice  was  a  pleasantly  modulated  barytone  when 
he  chose;  he  sang  the  quaint  and  lovely  old  song  in  per 
fect  taste.  Then,  very  lightly,  he  sang  "  The  Harp," 

319 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

and  afterward  an  old  Breton  song  made  centuries 
ago. 

When  he  turned  Miss  Vining  was  resting  her  head 
on  both  hands,  eyes  lowered. 

"  Those  were  the  real  musicians  and  poets,"  he  said 
— "  not  these  Strausses  and  6  Girls  from  the  Golden 
West.'  " 

"  Will  you  sing  some  more  ?  " 

"  Do  you  like  my  singing?  " 

"  Very  much." 

So  he  idled  for  another  half  hour  at  the  piano,  recall 
ing  half-forgotten  melodies  of  the  Age  of  Faith,  which, 
like  all  art  of  that  immortal  age,  can  never  again  be  re 
vived.  For  art  alone  was  not  enough  in  those  days,  the 
creator  of  the  beautiful  was  also  endowed  with  Faith; 
all  the  world  was  so  endowed ;  and  it  was  such  an  audi 
ence  as  never  again  can  gather  to  inspire  any  maker  of 
beautiful  things. 

Quarren  came  up  to  listen ;  Jessie  prepared  tea ;  and 
the  last  golden  hour  of  the  afternoon  drifted  away  to 
the  untroubled  harmonies  of  other  days. 

Later,  Jessie,  halting  on  the  steps  to  draw  on  her 
gloves,  heard  Dankmere  open  the  door  behind  her  and 
come  out. 

They  descended  the  steps  together,  and  she  was 
already  turning  north  with  a  nod  of  good-night,  when 
he  said: 

"  Are  you  walking  ?  " 

She  was,  to  save  carfare. 

"  May  I  go  a  little  way  ?  " 

«  Yes— if- " 

Lord  Dankmere  waited,  but  she  did  not  complete 
whatever  it  was  she  had  meant  to  say.  Then,  very 

320 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

slowly  she  turned  northward,  and  he  went,  too,  grasping 
his  walking-stick  with  unnecessary  firmness  and  carry 
ing  himself  with  the  determination  and  dignity  of  a  man 
who  is  walking  beside  a  pretty  girl  slightly  taller  than 
himself. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

STRELSA  had  gone  to  town  with  her  maid,  remained 
there  the  entire  afternoon,  and  returned  to  Witch- 
Hollow  without  seeing  Quarren  or  even  letting  him  know 
she  was  there. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  her  and  she  knew 
it ;  and  she  had  already  begun  to  move  doggedly  toward 
the  end  through  the  blind  confusion  of  things,  no  longer 
seeing,  hearing,  heeding;  impelled  mechanically  toward 
the  goal  which  meant  to  her  only  the  relief  of  absolute 
rest. 

For  her  troubles  were  accumulating  and  she  found 
in  herself  no  resisting  power — only  the  nervous  strength 
left  to  get  away  from  them.  Troubles  of  every  descrip 
tion  were  impending;  some  had  already  come  upon  her, 
like  Quarren's  last  letter  which  she  knew  signified  that 
the  termination  of  their  friendship  was  already  in  sight. 

But  other  things  were  in  sight,  too,  so  she  spent  the 
afternoon  in  town  with  her  lawyers ;  which  lengthy 
seance  resulted  in  the  advertising  for  immediate  sale  of 
her  house  in  town  and  its  contents,  her  town  car, 
brougham,  victoria  and  three  horses. 

Through  her  lawyers,  also,  every  jewel  she  pos 
sessed,  all  her  wardrobe  except  what  she  had  with  her 
at  Witch-Hollow,  and  her  very  beautiful  collection  of 
old  lace,  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  certain  discreet 
people  to  dispose  of  privately. 

322 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Every  servant  in  her  employment  except  her  maid 
was  paid  and  dismissed ;  her  resignation  from  the  Prov 
ince  Club  was  forwarded,  all  social  engagements  for 
the  summer  cancelled. 

There  remained  only  two  other  matters  to  settle; 
and  one  of  them  could  be  put  off — without  hope  of  es 
cape  perhaps — but  still  it  could  be  avoided  for  a  little 
while  longer. 

The  other  was  to  write  to  Quarren ;  and  she  wrote 
as  follows : 

"  I  have  been  in  town ;  necessity  drove  me,  and  I  was 
too  unhappy  to  see  you.  But  this  is  the  result:  I  can 
hold  out  a  few  months  longer — to  no  purpose,  I  know — 
yet,  you  asked  it  of  me,  and  I  am  trying  to  do  it.  Mean 
while  the  pressure  never  eases ;  I  feel  your  unhapplness 
deeply — deeply,  Rix ! — and  it  is  steadily  wearing  me 
out.  And  the  pressure  from  Molly  in  your  behalf,  from 
Mrs.  Sprowl  by  daily  letter  in  behalf  of  Sir  Charles, 
from  Langly  in  his  own  interest  never  slackens  for  one 
moment. 

"  And  that  is  not  all ;  my  late  husband  left  no  will, 
and  I  have  steadily  refused  to  make  any  contest  for 
more  than  my  dower  rights. 

"  That  has  been  swept  away,  now ;  urgent  need  has 
compelled  me  to  offer  for  sale  everything  I  possess  ex 
cept  what  wardrobe  and  unimportant  trinkets  I  have 
with  me. 

"  So  many  suits  have  been  threatened  and  even  com 
menced  against  me — you  don't  know,  Rix — but  while 
there  remains  any  chance  of  meeting  my  obligations 
dollar  for  dollar  I  have  refused  to  go  through  bank 
ruptcy. 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  I  need  not,  now,  I  think.  But  the  selling  of  every 
thing  will  not  leave  me  very  much ;  and  in  the  end  my 
cowardice  will  do  what  you  dread,  and  what  I  no  longer 
fear,  so  utterly  dead  in  me  is  every  emotion,  every  nerve, 
every  moral.  Men  bound  to  the  wheel  have  slept ;  I  want 
that  sleep.  I  long  for  the  insensibility,  the  endless 
lethargy  that  the  mortally  bruised  crave;  and  that  is 
all  I  hope  or  care  for  now. 

"  Love,  as  man  professes  it,  would  only  hurt  me — 
even  yours.  There  can  be  no  response  from  a  soul  and 
body  stunned.  Nothing  must  disturb  their  bruised 
coma. 

"  The  man  I  intend  to  marry  can  evoke  nothing  in 
me,  will  demand  nothing  of  me.  That  is  already  mutu 
ally  understood.  It's  merely  a  bargain.  He  wants  me 
as  the  ornament  for  the  House  of  Sprowl.  I  can  carry 
out  the  pact  without  effort,  figure  as  the  mistress  of  his 
domain,  live  life  through  unharassed  as  though  I  stood 
alone  in  a  vague,  warm  dream,  safe  from  anything  real. 

"  Meanwhile,  without  aim,  without  hope,  without 
even  desire  to  escape  my  destiny,  I  am  holding  out  be 
cause  you  ask  it.  To  what  end,  my  friend?  Can  you 
tell  me?" 

One  morning  Molly  came  into  her  room  greatly  per 
turbed,  and  Strelsa,  still  in  bed,  laid  aside  the  New  Tes 
tament  which  she  had  been  reading,  and  looked  up 
questioningly  at  her  agitated  hostess. 

"  It's  your  fault,"  began  Molly  without  prelimi 
naries — "  that  old  woman  certainly  suspects  what  you're 
up  to  with  her  nephew  or  she  wouldn't  bother  to  come 
up  here " 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Strelsa,  sitting  up.  "  Mrs.  Sprowl  ?  " 
324 


THE    STREETS    QF   ASCALON 

"  Certainly,  horse,  foot,  and  dragoons !  She's  com 
ing,  I  tell  you,  and  there's  only  one  motive  for  her  ad 
vent  !  " 

"  But  where  will  she  stop?  "  asked  Strelsa,  flushing 
with  dismay. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"With  Langly?" 

"  He  wouldn't  have  her." 

"  She  is  not  to  be  your  guest,  is  she?  " 

"  No.  She  wrote  hinting  that  she'd  come  if  asked. 
I  pretended  not  to  understand.  I  don't  want  her  here. 
Every  servant  I  have  would  leave — as  a  beginning.  Be 
sides  I  don't  require  the  social  prestige  of  such  a  visita 
tion;  and  she  knows  that,  too.  So  what  do  you  think 
she's  done?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Strelsa  wearily. 

"  Well,  she's  manoeuvred,  somehow ;  and  this  morn 
ing's  paper  announces  that  she's  to  be  entertained  at 
South  Linden  by  Mary  Ledwith." 

Strelsa  reddened. 

"  Why  should  that  concern  me  ?  "  she  asked  calmly. 

"  Concern  you,  child !  How  can  it  help  concerning 
you?  Do  you  see  what  she's  done? — do  you  count  all 
the  birds  she's  knocked  over  with  one  stone.  Mary  Led 
with  returns  from  Reno  and  Mrs.  Sprowl  fixes  and 
secures  her  social  status  by  visiting  her  at  once.  And 
it's  a  perfectly  plain  notice  to  Langly,  too,  and — for 
give  me,  dear  ! — to  you !  " 

Strelsa  scarlet  and  astonished,  sat  up  rigid,  her 
beautiful  head  thrown  back. 

"  If  she  means  it  that  way,  it  is  slanderous,"  she 
said.  "  The  entire  story  is  a  base  slander !  Did  you  be 
lieve  it,  Molly?" 

325 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Believe  it  ?     Of  course  I  believe  it 

"Why  should  you?  Because  a  lot  of  vile  news 
papers  have  hinted  at  such  a  thing?  I  tell  you  it 
is  an  infamous  story  without  one  atom  of  truth  in 
it " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Molly  bluntly. 

"  Because  Langly  says  so." 

"Oh.     Did  you  ask  him?" 

"  No.     He  spoke  of  it  himself." 

"He  denied  it?" 

"  Absolutely  on  his  word  of  honour." 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  sue  a  few  newspapers  ?  " 

"  He  spoke  of  that,  too.  He  said  that  his  attorneys 
had  advised  him  not  to  bring  any  actions  because  the 
papers  had  been  too  clever  to  lay  themselves  open  to 
suits  for  libel." 

"  Oh,"  said  Molly  softly. 

Strelsa,  flushed,  breathing  rapidly  and  irregularly, 
sat  there  in  bed  watching  her;  but  Molly  avoided  her 
brilliant,  level  gaze. 

"  There's  no  use  in  talking  to  you,"  she  said,  "  but 
why  on  earth  you  don't  marry  Sir  Charles — 

"  Molly  !    Please  don't " 

"—Or  Rix— 

"  Molly !  Molly  !  Can't  you  let  me  alone !  Can't 
we  be  together  for  ten  minutes  unless  you  urge  me  to 
marry  somebody  ?  Why  do  you  want  me  to  marry  any 
body!— Why " 

"  But  you're  going  to  marry  Langly,  you  say !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am !  I  am !  But  can't  you  let  me  forget  it 
for  a  moment  or  two?  I — I'm  not  ver}'  well — 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Molly,  grimly.  "  I'm  sorry, 
darling,  but  the  moment  your  engagement  to  Langly  is 

326 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

announced  there'll  be  a  horrid  smash  and  some  people 
are  going  to  be  spattered " 

"  It  isn't  announced !  "  said  the  girl  hotly.  "  Only 
you  and  Rix  know  about  it  except  Langly  and  myself !  " 

Molly  Wycherly  rose  from  her  chair,  went  over  and 
seated  herself  on  the  foot  of  the  bed : 

"  Tell  me  something,  will  you,  Strelsa?  " 

"What?" 

"  Why  does  Langly  desire  to  keep  your  engagement 
to  him  a  secret?  " 

"  He  wishes  it  for  the  present." 

"Why?" 

"  For  that  very  reason !  "  said  Strelsa,  fiercely — 
"  because  of  the  injustice  the  papers  have  done  him  in 
this  miserable  Ledwith  matter.  He  chooses  to  wait  un 
til  it  is  forgotten — in  order  to  shield  me,  I  suppose, 
from  any  libellous  comment " 

"  You  talk  like  a  little  idiot !  "  said  Molly  between 
her  teeth.  "  Strelsa,  I  could  shake  you — if  it  would 
wake  you  up !  Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  that  this 
Ledwith  matter  will  be  forgotten?  Do  you  suppose  if 
there  were  nothing  in  it  but  libel  that  he'd  be  afraid? 
You  listen  to  me ;  that  man  is  not  apt  to  be  afraid  of 
anything,  but  he  evidently  is  afraid,  nowf  Of  what, 
then?" 

"  Of  my  being  annoyed  by  newspaper  comment." 

"  And  you  think  it's  merely  that?  " 

"Isn't  it  enough?" 

Molly  laughed: 

"  We're  a  hardened  lot — some  of  us.  But  our  most 
deadly  fear  is  that  the  papers  may  not  notice  us.  No 
matter  what  they  say  if  they'll  only  say  something! — 
that's  our  necessity  and  our  unadmitted  prayer.  Be- 

327 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

cause  we've  neither  brains  nor  culture  nor  any  distin 
guishing  virtue  or  ability — and  we're  nothing — abso 
lutely  nothing  unless  the  papers  create  us !  Don't  tell 
me  that  any  one  among  us  is  afraid  of  publicity ! — not 
in  the  particular  circle  where  you  and  I  and  Langly  and 
his  aunt  pursue  our  eccentric  orbits ! 

"  Plenty  of  wealthy  and  fashionable  people  dread 
publicity  and  shrink  from  it;  plenty  of  them  would 
gladly  remain  unchronicled  and  unsung.  But  it  is  not 
so  among  the  fixed  stars  and  planets  and  meteors  and 
satellites  of  our  particularly  flamboyant  constellation. 
I  know.  I  also  know  that  you  don't  really  belong  in  it. 
But  you'll  either  become  accustomed  to  it  or  it  will  kill 
you  if  you  don't  drop — or  soar,  as  you  please — into 
some  other  section  of  eternal  space." 

She  sat  swinging  her  foot,  flushed,  animated,  her 
eyes  and  colour  brilliant — a  slim,  exquisitely  groomed 
woman  with  all  the  superficial  smoothness  of  a  girl  save 
for  the  wisdom  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  smile,  alas ! 

And  the  other's  eyes  reflected  in  their  clear  gray 
depths  no  such  wisdom,  only  the  haunting  knowledge 
of  sorrow  and,  vaguely,  the  inexplicable  horror  of  man 
as  he  really  is — or  at  least  as  she  had  only  known  him. 

Still  swinging  her  pretty  foot,  a  deliberate  smile 
edging  her  lips,  Molly  said: 

"  If  you'll  let  me,  I'll  stand  by  you,  darling." 

Strelsa  stared  at  her  without  comprehension,  then 
dropped  her  head  back  on  the  pillows. 

"  If  you'll  let  me  stay  with  you  a  little  while  longer 
— that  is  all  I  ask,"  she  said  almost  drowsily. 

Molly  sprang  up,  came  around  and  kissed  her, 
lightly :  "  Of  course. .  That  was  what  I  was  going  to  ask 
of  you." 

328 


If  you'll  let  me,  Hi 


itand  by  you,  darling.'" 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 


Strelsa  closed  her  eyes.     "  I'll  stay,"  she  murmured. 

Molly  laid  her  own  cool  face  down  beside  Strelsa's 
hot  cheek,  kneeling  beside  the  bed. 

"  Dear,"  she  whispered,  "  let  us  wait  and  see  what 
happens.  There's  just  one  thing  that  has  distorted 
your  view — a  dreadful  experience  with  one  man — two 
years  of  hell's  own  horror  with  one  of  its  wretched  in 
habitants.  I  don't  believe  the  impression  is  going  to 
last  a  lifetime.  I  don't  believe  it  is  indelible.  I  believe 
somehow,  some  time  you  will  learn  that  a  man's  love  does 
not  mean  horror  and  degradation ;  that  it  is  no  abuse  of 
friendship  which  offers  love  also,  to  return  it  with  friend 
ship  only. 

"  Sir  Charles  offers  that ;  and  you  refuse  because 
you  do  not  love  him  and  will  not  use  his  friendship  to 
aid  yourself  to  material  comfort. 

"  And  I  suspect  you  have  said  the  same  thing  to 
Rix.  Have  you?  " 

The  girl  lay  silent,  eyes  closed. 

"  Never  mind ;  don't  answer.  I  know  you  well  enough 
to  know  that  you  said  some  such  thing  to  Rix.  .  .  . 
And  it's  all  right  in  its  way.  But  the  alternative  is  not 
what  you  think  it  is — not  this  bargain  with  Langly  for 
a  place  to  lay  your  tired  head — not  this  deal  to  decorate 
his  name  and  estates  in  return  for  personal  immunity. 
You  are  wrong — I'm  not  immoral,  only  unmoral — as 
many  of  us  are — but  you've  gone  all  to  pieces,  dear — 
morally,  mentally,  nervously — and  it's  not  from  cow 
ardice,  not  from  depravity.  It  is  the  direct  result  of 
the  two  years  of  terror  and  desperate  self-control — two 
years  of  courage — high  moral  courage,  determination, 
self-suppression — and  of  the  startling  and  dreadful 
climax. 

329 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  That  is  the  blow  you  are  now  feeling — and  the  re 
action  even  after  two  years  more  of  half-stunned  soli 
tude.  You  are  waking,  darling;  that  is  all.  And  it 
hurts." 

Strelsa's  bare  arm  moved  a  little,  moved,  groping, 
and  tightened  around  Molly's  neck.  And  they  remained 
that  way  for  a  long  while,  Molly  kneeling  on  the  floor 
beside  her. 

"  Don't  you  ever  cry?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Not— now." 

"  It  would  be  better  if  you  could." 

"  There  are  no  tears — I — I  am  burnt  out — all  burnt 
out " 

"  You  need  strength." 

"  I  haven't  the  desire  for  it  any  longer." 

"  Not  the  desire  to  face  things  pluckily  ?  " 

"  No — no  longer.  Everything's  dead  in  me  except 
the  longing  for — quiet.  I'll  pay  any  price  for  it — ex 
cept  misuse  of  friends." 

"  How  could  you  misuse  Rix  by  marrying  him  ?  " 

"  By  accepting  what  I  could  never  return." 

"Love?" 

"  Yes." 

"Does  he  ask  that?" 

"  N-no — not  now.  But — he  wants  it.  And  I  haven't 
it  to  give.  So  I  can't  take  his — and  let  him  work  all 
his  life  for  my  comfort — I  can't  take  it  from  Sir  Charles 
and  accept  the  position  and  fortune  he  offered  me 
once " 

She  lay  silent  a  moment,  then  unclosed  her  eyes. 

"  Molly,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  believe  that  Sir  Charles 
is  going  to  mind  very  much." 

Molly  met  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  very  near,  and  a 
330 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

pale   flash   of   telepathy   passed  between   them.      Then 
Strelsa  smiled. 

"  You  mean  Chrysos,"  said  Molly. 

"Yes.   .   .   .  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  She's  little  more  than  a  child.  ...  I  don't  know. 
Men  are  that  way — men  of  Sir  Charles's  age  and  ex 
perience  are  likely  to  drift  that  way.  .  .  .  But  if  you 
are  done  with  Sir  Charles,  what  he  does  no  longer  inter 
ests  me — except  that  the  Lacys  will  become  insuffer 
able  if " 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  dear." 

"  I  don't  like  the  family — except  Chrysos." 

"  Then  be  glad  for  her — if  it  comes  true.  .  .  .  Sir 
Charles  is  a  dear — almost  too  perfectly  ideal  to  be  a 
man.  ...  I  do  wish  it  for  his  sake.  .  .  .  He  was  a 
little  unhappy  over  me  I  think." 

"  He  adores  you  still,  you  little  villain !  "  whispered 
Molly,  fondling  her.  "  But — let  poets  sing  and  ro 
mancers  rave — there's  nothing  that  starves  as  quickly 
as  love.  And  Sir  Charles  has  been  long  fasting — good 
luck  to  him  and  more  shame  on  you !  " 

Strelsa  laughed,  cleared  her  brow  and  eyes  of  the 
soft  bright  hair,  and,  flinging  out  both  arms,  took  Molly 
to  her  heart  in  a  swift,  hard  embrace. 

"  There !  "  she  said,  breathless,  "  I  adore  you  any 
how,  Molly.  ...  I  feel  better,  too.  I'm  glad  you 
talked  to  me.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I'll  get  anything  for 
my  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  when  you  sell  it.  That's  the  hopeless  part  of 
it  just  at  this  time  of  year " 

"  Perhaps  my  luck  will  turn,"  said  Strelsa.  "  You 
know  I've  had  an  awful  lot  of  the  other  kind  all  my  life." 

They  laughed. 

331 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Strelsa  went  on:  "Perhaps  when  I  sell  everything 
I'll  have  enough  left  over  to  buy  a  little  house  up  here 
near  you,  Molly,  and  have  pigs  and  chickens  and  a 
cow!  " 

"  How  long  could  you  stand  that  kind  of  existence, 
silly?" 

Strelsa  looked  gravely  back  at  her,  then  with  a  sigh: 
"  It  seems  as  though  I  could  stand  it  forever,  now. 
You  know  I  seem  to  be  changing  a  little  all  the  while. 
First,  when  Mrs.  Sprowl  found  me  at  Colorado  Springs 
and  persuaded  me  to  come  to  New  York  I  was  mad  for 
pleasure — crazy  about  anything  that  promised  gaiety 
and  amusement — anything  to  make  me  forget. 

"You  know  I  never  went -anywhere  in  Colorado 
Springs ;  I  was  too  ill — ill  most  of  the  time.  .  .  .  And 
Mrs.  Sprowl  said  she  knew  my  mother — it's  curious, 
but  mother  never  said  anything  about  her — and  she 
cared  for  fashionable  people. 

"  So  I  came  to  New  York  last  winter — and  you 
know  the  rest — I  got  tired  physically,  first ;  then  so 
many  wanted  to  marry  me — and  so  many  women  urged 
me  to  do  so  many  things — and  I  was  unhappy  about 
Rix — and  then  came  this  awful  financial  crash " 

"  Stop  thinking  of  it !  " 

"  Yes ;  I  mean  to.  I  only  wanted  you  to  understand 
how,  one  by  one,  emotions  and  desires  have  been  killed 
in  me  during  the  last  four  years.  .  .  .  And  even  the 
desire  for  wealth  and  position — which  I  clung  to  up  to 
yesterday — somehow,  now — this  morning — has  become 
little  more  than  a  dreamy  wish.  ...  I'd  rather  have 
quiet  if  I  could — if  there's  enough  money  left  to  let  me 
rest  somewhere " 

"  There  will  be,"  said  Molly,  watching  her. 
332 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  And — then  there  would  be  no 
necessity  for — for " 

"  Langly ! " 

Strelsa  flushed.  "  I  wonder,"  she  mused.  "  I  wonder 
whether — but  it  seems  impossible  that  I  should  suddenly 
find  I  didn't  care  for  everything  I  cared  for  this  winter. 
Perhaps  I'm  too  tired  to  care  just  now." 

"  It  might  be,"  said  Molly,  "  that  something — for 
example  your  friendship  with  Rix — had  made  other 
matters  seem  less  important." 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly,  saw  nothing  in  Molly's 
expression  to  disturb  her,  then  turned  her  eyes  away, 
and  lay  silent,  considering. 

If  her  friendship  for  Quarren  had  imperceptibly 
filled  her  mind,  even  crowding  aside  other  and  most  im 
portant  matters,  she  did  not  realise  it.  She  thought  of 
it  now,  and  of  him — recalling  the  letter  she  had  written. 

Vaguely  she  was  aware  of  the  difference  in  her  atti 
tude  toward  life  since  she  wrote  that  letter  only  a  few 
days  before.  To  what  was  it  due?  To  his  letter  in 
reply  now  lying  between  the  leaves  of  her  New  Testa 
ment  on  the  table  beside  her?  This  was  his  letter: 

"  Hold  out,  Strelsa !  Matters  are  going  well  with 
me.  Your  tide,  too,  will  turn  before  you  know  it.  But 
neither  man  nor  woman  is  going  to  aid  you,  only  time, 
Strelsa,  and — something  that  neither  you  nor  I  have 
bothered  about  very  much — something  that  has  many 
names  in  many  tongues — but  they  all  mean  the  same. 
And  the  symbol  of  what  they  mean  is  Truth. 

"  Why  not  study  it?  We  never  have.  All  sages  of 
all  times  have  studied  it  and  found  comfort ;  all  saints 
in  all  ages  have  found  in  it  strength. 

333 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  find  its  traces  in  every  ancient  picture  that  I 
touch.  But  there  are  books  still  older  that  have  lived 
because  of  it.  And  one  man  died  for  it — man  or  God  as 
you  will — the  former  is  more  fashionable. 

"  Lives  that  have  been  lived  because  of  it,  given  for 
it,  forgiven  for  its  sake,  are  worth  our  casual  study. 

"  For  they  say  there  is  no  greater  thing  than  Truth. 
I  can  imagine  no  greater.  And  the  search  for  it  is  in 
teresting — fascinating — I  had  no  idea  how  absorbing 
until  recently — until  I  first  saw  you,  who  sent  me  out 
into  the  world  to  work. 

"  Hold  out — and  study  this  curious  subject  of 
Truth  for  a  little  while.  Will  you? 

"  If  you'll  only  study  it  a  while  I  promise  that  it 
will  interest  you — not  in  its  formalisms,  not  in  its  petty 
rituals  and  observances,  nor  in  its  endless  nomencla- 
iure,  nor  its  orthodoxy — but  just  as  you  discover  it 
for  yourself  in  the  histories  of  men  and  women — of  saint 
-and  sinner — and,  above  all,  in  the  matchless  life  of  Him 
who  understood  them  all. 

"  Non  tu  corpus  eras  sine  pectore!  " 

Lying  there,  remembering  his  letter  almost  word  for 
word,  and  where  it  now  lay  among  printed  pages  incom 
prehensible  to  her  except  by  the  mechanical  processes 
of  formal  faith  and  superficial  observance,  she  wondered 
how  much  that,  and  the  scarcely  scanned  printed  page, 
might  have  altered  her  views  of  life. 

Molly  kissed  her  again  and  went  away  downstairs. 

When  she  was  dressed  in  her  habit  she  went  out  to 
the  lawn's  edge  where  Langly  and  the  horses  had  already 
gathered :  he  put  her  up,  and  they  cantered  away  down 
the  wooded  road  that  led  to  South  Linden. 

334 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

After  their  first  gallop  they  slowed  to  a  walk  on  the 
farther  hill  slope,  chatting  of  inconsequential  things ; 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  in  unusually  good 
spirits — almost  gay  for  him — and  his  short  dry  laugh 
rang  out  once  or  twice,-  which  was  more  than  she  had 
heard  from  him  in  a  week. 

From  moment  to  moment  she  glanced  sideways  at 
him,  curiously  inspecting  the  sleek-headed  symmetry  of 
the  man,  noticing,  as  always,  his  perfectly  groomed 
figure,  his  narrow  head  and  the  well-cut  lines  of  the  face 
and  jaw.  Once  she  had  seen  him — the  very  first  time 
she  had  ever  met  him  at  Miami — eating  a  broiled  lobster. 
And  somehow  his  healthy  appetite,  the  clean  incision 
of  his  sun-bronzed  jaw  and  the  working  muscles,  chew 
ing  and  swallowing,  fascinated  her ;  and  she  never  saw 
him  but  she  thought  of  him  eating  vigorously  aboard 
the  Yulan. 

"  Langly,"  she  said,  "  is  it  going  to  be  disagree 
able  for  you  when  Mrs.  Ledwith  returns  to  South 
Linden?" 

He  looked  at  her  leisurely,  eyes,  as  always,  slightly 
protruding : 

"Why?" 

"  The  newspapers." 

"  Probably,"  he  said. 
4  Then — what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"About  what?" 

"  The  papers." 

"  Nothing." 

"  Or— about  Mrs.  Ledwith?  " 

"  Be  civil  if  I  see  her." 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  reddening.  "  I  was  wonder 
ing  whether  gossip  might  be  nipped  in  the  bud  if  you 

335 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

left  before  she  arrives  and  remained  away  until  she 
leaves." 

His  prominent  eyes  were  searching  her  features  all 
the  while  she  was  speaking;  now  they  wandered  rest 
lessly  over  the  landscape. 

"  It's  my  fashion,"  he  said,  "  to  face  things  as  they 
come." 

"  If  you  don't  mind  I'd  rather  have  you  go,"  she 
said. 

"Where?" 

"  Anywhere  you  care  to." 

He  said :  "  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times  that  the 
thing  to  do  is  to  take  Molly  Wycherly  'board  the  Yulan, 
and " 

"  I  do  not  care  to  do  it  until  our  engagement  is 
announced." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  swinging  around  in  his  sad 
dle,  "  I'll  announce  it  to-day  and  we'll  go  aboard  this 
evening  and  clear  out." 

"  Wh-what !  "  she  faltered. 

"  There's  no  use  waiting  any  longer,"  he  said. 
"  Mrs.  Ledwith  and  my  fool  of  an  aunt  are  coming  to 
morrow.  Did  you  know  that?  Well,  they  are.  And 
every  dirty  newspaper  in  town  will  make  the  matter  in 
sidiously  significant !  If  my  aunt  hadn't  taken  it  into 
her  head  to  visit  Mrs.  Ledwith  at  this  particular  mo 
ment,  there  would  have  been  few  comments.  As  it  is 
there'll  be  plenty — and  I  don't  feel  like  putting  up  with 
them — I  don't  propose  bo  for  my  own  sake.  The  time 
comes,  sooner  or  later,  when  a  man  has  got  to  consider 
himself." 

After  a  short  silence  Strelsa  raised  her  gray  eyes : 

"  Has  it  occurred  to  you  to  consider  me,  Langly  ?  " 
336 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"What?  Certainly.  Haven't  I  been  doing  that 
ever  since  we've  been  engaged " 

"  I — wonder,"  she  mused. 

"  What  else  have  I  been  doing?  "  he  insisted — "  de 
nying  myself  the  pleasure  of  you  when  I'm  half  crazy 
about  you " 

"What!" 

A  dull  flush  settled  under  his  prominent  cheek-bones : 
he  looked  straight  ahead  of  him  between  his  horse's  ears 
as  he  rode,  sitting  his  saddle  like  the  perfect  horseman 
he  was,  although  his  mount  felt  the  savage  pain  of  a 
sudden  and  reasonless  spurring  and  the  wicked  curb 
scarcely  controlled  him. 

Strelsa  set  her  lips,  not  looking  at  either  horse  or 
man  on  her  right,  nor  even  noticing  her  own  mare  who 
was  cutting  up  in  sympathy  with  the  outraged  hunter 
at  her  withers. 

"Langly?" 

"Yes?" 

"  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  how  painful  such 
scandalous  rumours  must  be  for  Mrs.  Ledwith?  " 

"Can  I  help  them?" 

Strelsa  said,  thoughtfully :  "  What  a  horrible  thing 
for  a  woman !  It  was  generous  of  your  aunt  to  show 
people  what  she  thought  of  such  cruel  stories." 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said  sneeringly,  "  that  my  ex 
cellent  aunt  was  inspired  by  any  such  motive?  You 
might  as  well  know — if  you  don't  know  already — "  and 
his  pale  eyes  rested  a  moment  on  the  girl  beside  him — - 
"  that  my  aunt  is  visiting  Mrs.  Ledwith  solely  to  em 
barrass  me !  " 

"  How  could  it  embarrass  you?  " 

"  By  giving  colour  to  the  lies  told  about  me  and  the 
337 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Ledwiths,"  he  said  in  a  hard  voice — "  by  hinting  that 
Mary  Ledwith,  free  to  marry,  is  accepted  by  my  aunt ; 
and  the  rest  is  up  to  me !  That's  what  that  female  rela 
tive  of  mine  has  just  done — "  His  big,  white  teeth 
closed  with  a  click  and  he  spurred  his  horse  cruelly 
again  and  checked  him  until  the  slavering  creature 
almost  reared  over  backward. 

"  If  you  maltreat  that  horse  again,  Langly,  I'll 
leave  you.  Do  you  understand?  "  she  said,  exasperated. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — "  Again  his  jaw  fairly 
snapped,  but  the  horse  did  not  suffer  from  his  dis 
pleasure. 

"  What  has  enraged  you  so  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  This  whole  business.  There  isn't  anything  my 
aunt  could  have  done  more  vicious,  more  contemptible, 
than  to  visit  Mrs.  Ledwith  at  this  moment.  I'll  get  it 
from  every  quarter,  now." 

"  I  suppose  she  will,  too." 

"  My  aunt  ?     No  such  luck !  " 

"  I  mean  Mrs.  Ledwith." 

"  She?     Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

Strelsa  said  between  tightening  lips : 

"  Is  there  nothing  you  can  do,  no  kindness,  no  sacri 
fice  you  can  make  to  shield  Mrs.  Ledwith?  " 

He  stared  at  her,  then  his  eyes  roamed  restlessly : 

"How?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Langly.  .  .  .  But  if  there  is  any 
thing  you  could  do " 

"What?  My  aunt  and  the  papers  are  determined 
that  I  shall  marry  her !  I  take  it  that  you  are  not  sug 
gesting  that,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  suggesting  nothing,"  she  replied  in  a  low 
voice. 

338 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

66  Well,  /  am.  I'm  suggesting  that  you  and  Molly 
and  I  go  aboard  the  Yulan  and  clear  out  to-night !  " 

"  You  mean — to  announce  our  engagement  first  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  choose,"  he  said  without  a  shade  of 
expression  on  his  features. 

"  You  would  scarcely  propose  that  I  sail  with  you 
under  any  other  circumstances,"  she  said  sharply. 

"  I  leave  it  to  you  and  Mrs.  Wycherly.  The  main 
idea  is  to  clear  out  and  let  them  howl  and  tear  things 
up." 

"  Howl  at  Mrs.  Ledwith  and  tear  her  to  tatters  while 
we  start  around  the  world  on  the  Yulan?  "  nodded 
Strelsa.  She  was  rather  white,  but  she  laughed;  and 
he,  hearing  her,  turned  and  laughed,  too — a  quick  bark 
of  a  laugh  that  startled  both  horses  who  were  unaccus 
tomed  to  it. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  they  won't  put  her  out  of  business,"  he 
said.  "  She's  young  and  handsome  and  there  are 
plenty  of  her  sort  to  marry  her — even  Dankmere  would 
have  a  chance  there  or — "  he  hesitated,  and  decided  to 
refrain.  But  she  understood  perfectly,  and  lost  the 
remainder  of  her  colour. 

"  You  mean   Mr.   Quarren,"   she  said  coolly. 

"  I  didn't,"  he  replied,  lying.  And  she  was  aware 
of  his  falsehood,  too. 

"  What  started  those  rumours  about  Mrs.  Ledwith 
and  you,  Langly  ?  "  she  asked  in  the  same  pleasantly 
even  tone,  and  turned  her  horse's  head  toward  home  at 
the  same  time.  He  made  his  mount  pivot  showily  on  his 
hocks  and  drew  bridle  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  they  started  at  Newport." 

"How?" 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Ledwith  and  I  were  connected 
339 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

in  business  matters ;  I  saw  more  or  less  of  them  both — 
and  he  was  too  busy  to  be  with  his  wife  every  time  I 
happened  to  be  with  her.  So — you  know  what  they 
said." 

"  Yes.  When  you  and  she  were  lunching  at  different 
tables  at  the  Santa  Regina  you  used  to  write  notes  to 
her,  and  everybody  saw  you." 

"What  of  it?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  That  is  just  it;  there  was  nothing  in  it." 

"  Except  her  reputation.  .  .  .  What  a  silly  and 
careless  girl!  But  a  man  doesn't  think — doesn't  care 
very  much  I  fancy.  And  then  everybody  was  offensively 
sorry  for  Chester  Ledwith.  But  that  was  not  your  look 
out,  was  it,  Langly?  " 

Sprowl  turned  his  narrow  face  and  looked  at  her  in 
silence;  and  after  a  moment  misjudged  her. 

"  It  was  not  my  fault,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  liked  his 
wife  and  I  was  friendly  with  him  until  his  gutter  habits 
annoyed  me." 

"  He  went  to  pieces,  didn't  he?  " 

Once  more  Sprowl  inspected  her  features,  warily. 
Once  more  he  misjudged  her. 

"  He's  gone  to  smash,"  he  said — "  but  what's  that 
to  us?" 

"  I  wonder,"  she  smiled,  but  had  to  control  the 
tremor  of  her  lower  lip  by  catching  it  between  her  teeth 
and  looking  away  from  the  man  beside  her.  Quickly 
the  hint  of  tears  dried  out  in  her  gray  eyes — from  what 
ever  cause  they  sprang  glimmering  there  to  dim  her  eye 
sight.  She  bent  her  head,  absently  arranging,  re 
arranging  and  shifting  her  bridle. 

"  The  thing  to  do,"  he  said,  curling  his  long  mous- 
340 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

tache  with  powerful  fingers — "  is  for  the  Wycherlys  to 
stand  by  us  now — and  the  others  there — that  little  Lacy 
girl — and  Sir  Charles  if  he  chooses.  We'll  have  to  take 
the  whole  lot  of  them  aboard  I  suppose." 

"  Suppose  I  go  with  you  alone,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

He  started  in  his  saddle,  turned  on  her  a  face  that 
was  reddening  heavily.  For  an  instant  she  scarcely  rec 
ognised  him,  so  thick  his  lips  seemed,  so  congested  the 
veins  in  forehead  and  neck.  He  seemed  all  mouth  and 
eyes  and  sanguine  colour — and  big,  even  teeth,  now,  as 
the  lips  drew  aside  disclosing  them. 

"  Would  you  do  that,  Strelsa?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Would  you  do  it— for  me?  " 

Her  rapid  breathing  impeded  speech ;  she  said  some 
thing  inarticulate ;  he  leaned  from  his  saddle  and  caught 
her  in  his  left  arm. 

"  By  God,"  he  stammered,  "  I  knew  it !  You  can 
have  what  you  like  from  me — I  don't  care  what  it  is ! — 
take  it — fill  out  your  own  checks — only  let's  get  out  of 
here  before  those  damned  women  ruin  us  both!" 

She  had  strained  back  and  aside  from  him,  and  was 
trying  to  guide  her  mare  away,  but  his  powerful  arm 
crushed  her  and  his  hot  breath  fell  on  her  face  and  neck. 

"  You  can  have  it  your  own  way  I  tell  you — I  swear 
to  God  I'll  marry  you " 

"  What !  " 

Almost  strangled  she  wrenched  herself  free,  pant 
ing,  staring;  and  he  realised  his  mistake. 

"  We  can't  get  a  licence  if  we  leave  to-night,"  he 
said,  breathing  heavily.  "  But  we  can  touch  at  any 
port  and  manage  that." 

341 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You — you  would  take  me — permit  me  to  go — in 
such  a  manner?  "  she  breathed,  still  staring  at  him. 

"  It's  necessity,  isn't  it?  Didn't  you  propose  it?  It 
makes  no  difference  to  me,  Strelsa.  I  told  you  I'd  do 
anything  you  wished." 

"  What  did  you  mean — what  did  you  mean  by — 
by — "  But  she  could  go  no  further  in  speech  or 
thought. 

"  The  thing  to  do,"  he  said  calmly,  "  is  not  to  fly  off 
our  heads  or  become  panic-stricken.  You're  doing  the 
latter ;  I  lost  control  of  myself — after  what  you  gave  me 
to  hope — after  what  you  said — showing  your  trust  in 
me,"  he  added,  moistening  his  thick  dry  lips  with  his 
tongue.  "  I  lost  my  self-command — because  I  am  crazy 
for  you,  Strelsa — there's  no  sense  in  pretending  other 
wise — and  you  knew  it  all  the  time,  you  little  coquette ! 

"  What  do  you  think  a  man's  made  of?  You  wanted 
a  business  arrangement  and  I  humoured  you;  but  you 
knew  all  the  while,  and  I  knew,  that — that  I  am  infatu 
ated,  absolutely  mad  about  you."  He  added,  boldly: 
"  And  I  have  reason  to  think  it  doesn't  entirely  displease 
you,  haven't  I  ?  " 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  He  laid  his  gloved 
hand  over  hers,  and  recoiled  before  her  eyes  as  from  a 
blow. 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  teeth  were  still  working  on  her  under  lip.  She 
made  no  answer. 

"  Strelsa — if  you  really  feel  nothing  for  me — if  you 
mean  what  you  have  said  about  a  purely  business  agree 
ment — I  will  hold  to  it.  I  thought  for  a  moment — when 
you  said — something  in  your  smile  made  me  think " 

"  You  need  not  think  any  further,"  she  said. 
342 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  came  with  you  this  morning  to  tell 
you  that  I  will  not  marry  you." 

"  That's  nonsense  !     I've  hurt  you  —  made  you  an- 


"  I  came  for  that  reason,"  she  repeated.  "  I  meant 
to  do  it  as  soon  as  I  had  the  courage.  I  meant  to  do  it 
gently.  Now  I  don't  care  how  I  do  it.  It's  enough  for 
you  to  know  that  I  will  not  marry  you." 

"Is  that  final?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  perfectly  well  I  was  — 
was  too  impulsive,  too  ardent  -  " 

She  turned  her  face  away  with  a  faint,  sick  look  at 
the  summer  fields  where  scores  of  birds  sang  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  his  manner  changing,  "  I  tell 
you  I'm  sorry.  I  ask  your  pardon.  Whatever  you 
wish  shall  be  done.  Tell  me  what  to  do." 

After  a  few  moments  she  turned  toward  him  again. 

"  A  few  minutes  ago  I  could  have  told  you  what 
to  do.  I  would  have  told  you  to  marry  Mary  Ledwith. 
Also  I  would  have  been  \vrong.  Now,  as  you  ask  me,  I 
tell  you  not  to  marry  her." 

His  eyes  were  deadly  dangerous,  but  she  .met  them 
carelessly. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  don't  marry  any  woman  after 
your  attentions  have  made  her  conspicuous.  It  will  be 
pleasanter  for  her  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  her  friends." 

"  You  are  having  your  vengeance,"  he  said.  "  Take 
it  to  the  limit,  Strelsa,  and  then  let  us  be  reconciled." 

"  No,  it  is  too  late.  It  was  too  late  even  before  we 
started  out  together.  Why  —  I  didn't  realise  it  then  — 

343 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

but  it  was  too  late  long  ago — from  the  day  you  spoke  as 
you  did  in  my  presence  to  Mr.  Quarren.  That  finished 
you,  Langly — if,  indeed,  you  ever  really  began  to  mean 
anything  at  all  to  me." 

He  made  a  last  effort  and  the  veins  stood  out  on  his 
forehead : 

"  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  to  Quarren  as  I  did.  I  like 
him." 

She  said  coolly :  "  You  hate  him.  You  and  Mr.  Cal- 
dera  almost  ruined  him  in  that  acreage  affair." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  Caldera  squeezed  him ;  I  did 
not.  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  My  agents  attend  to 
such  petty  matters.  What  motive  have  I  for  disliking 
Quarren  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully :  "  Perhaps 
because  you  thought  he  was  devoted  to  me — and  I  to 
him.  .  .  .  And  you  were  right,"  she  added :  "  I  am  de 
voted  to  him  because  he  is  a  man  and  a  clean  one." 

"  Have  you  ended?  " 

"Ended  what?" 

"  Punishing  me." 

Her  lips  curled  slightly :  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  in 
clined  to  self-flattery,  Langly.  We  chasten  those  whom 
we  care  for." 

"  Are  you  silly  enough  to  dismiss  me  through  sheer 
pique  ?  "  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

"Pique?  I  don't  understand.  I've  merely  con 
cluded  that  I  don't  need  your  fortune  and  I  don't  want 
your  name.  You,  personally,  never  figured  in  the  pro 
posed  arrangement." 

His  visage  altered  alarmingly : 

"  Who  have  you  got  on  the  string  now !  "  he  broke 
out — "  you  little  adventuress !  What  damned  fool  is 

344 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

damned  fool  enough  to  marry  you  when  anybody  could 
get  you  for  less  if  they  care  to  spend  the  time  on 
you " 

Suddenly  his  arm  shot  out  and  he  wrenched  her 
bridle,  dragging  her  horse  around  and  holding  him 
there. 

"Are  you  mad?  "  she  whispered,  white  to  the  lips. 
"  Take  your  hand  off  my  bridle  !  " 

"  For  another  word,"  he  said  between  clinched 
teeth,  "  I'd  ride  you  down  and  spoil  that  face  of  yours ! 
Hold  your  tongue  and  listen  to  me.  I've  stood  all  I'm 
going  to  from  you.  I've  done  all  the  cringing  and  boot 
licking  that  is  going  to  be  done.  You're  the  sort  that 
needs  curb  and  spurs,  and  you'll  get  them  if  you  cut  up 
with  me.  Is  that  plain  ?  " 

She  had  carried  no  crop  that  morning  or  she  would 
have  used  it;  her  bridle  was  useless;  spurring  might 
have  dragged  them  both  down  under  the  horses' 
feet, 

"  For  the  last  time,"  he  said,  "  you  listen  to  me.  I 
love  you.  I  want  you.  You  haven't  a  cent ;  you  could 
fill  out  any  check  you  chose  to  draw  over  my  signa 
ture.  Now  if  you  are  not  crazy,  or  a  hopeless  fool,  be 
have  yourself." 

A  great  sob  choked  her ;  she  forced  it  back  and  sat, 
waiting,  eyes  almost  closed. 

"  Strelsa,  answer  me !  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Answer  me,  for  God's  sake !  " 

She  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  No." 

His  eyes  seemed  starting  from  his  head  and  the 
345 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

deep  blood  rushed  to  his  face  and  neck,  and  he 
flung  her  bridle  into  her  face  with  an  inarticulate 
sound. 

Then,  slowly,  side  by  side  they  advanced  along  the 
road  together.  A  groom  met  them  at  Witch-Hollow ; 
Strelsa  slipped  from  her  saddle  without  aid  and,  lei 
surely,  erect,  smiling,  walked  up  to  the  veranda  where 
Molly  stood  reading  the  morning  paper. 

"  Hello  dear,"  she  said.  "  Am  I  very  late  for 
luncheon  ?  " 

"  It's  over.    Will  you  have  a  tray  out  here?  " 

"May  I?" 

"  Don't  you  want  to  change,  first  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks." 

Molly  glanced  up  from  the  paper : 

"  Isn't  Langly  stopping  for  luncheon  with  you?  " 

"  No." 

Molly  looked  at  her  curiously : 

"  Did  you  enjoy  your  gallop?  " 

"  We  didn't  gallop  much." 

"Spooned?" 

Strelsa  shuddered  slightly.  The  elder  woman 
dropped  her  paper  and  gazed  at  her. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  all  off,  Strelsa !  " 

"  Entirely.  Please  don't  let's  speak  of  it  again — or 
of  him — if  you  don't  mind " 

"  I  don't ! — you  darling ! — you  poor  darling !  What 
has  that  creature  done  to  you?  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  him,  please." 

"  No,  I  won't.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  Strelsa !— I  can't 
tell  you  how  happy,  how  immensely  relieved — and  that 
cat  of  an  aunt  of  his  here  to  make  mischief ! — and  poor 

Mary  Led  with "  • 

346 


"'Is  it  to  be  Sir  Charles  after  all, 


A>  CV* 


darling?'  she  asked  caressingly." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Molly,  I — I  simply  can't  talk  about  it — any  of 
it " 

She  turned  abruptly,  entered  the  house,  and  ran 
lightly  up  the  stairs.  Molly  waited  for  her,  grimly  con 
tent  with  the  elimination  of  Larigly  Sprowl  and  already 
planning  separate  campaigns  in  behalf  of  Sir  Charles 
and  Quarren. 

She  was  still  absorbed  in  her  scheming  when  Strelsa 
came  down.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  any  emotion  ex 
cept  pleasure  in  her  face.  In  her  heart  it  was  the  same ; 
only  an  immense,  immeasurable  relief  reigned  there, 
calming  and  exciting  her  alternately.  But  her  face  was 
yet  a  trifle  pale ;  her  hands  still  unsteady ;  and  every 
delicate  nerve,  slowly  relaxing  from  the  tension,  was 
regaining  its  normal  quiet  by  degrees. 

Her  appetite  was  excellent,  however.  Afterward  she 
and  Molly  chose  neighbouring  rockers,  and  Molly, 
lighting  a  cigarette,  opened  fire : 

"Is  it  to  be  Sir  Charles  after  all,  darling?"  she 
asked  caressingly. 

Strelsa  laughed  outright,  then,  astonished  that  she 
had  not  shrunk  from  a  renewal  of  the  eternal  pressure, 
looked  at  Molly  with  wide  gray  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me  to-day," 
she  said ;  "  I  seem  to  be  able  to  laugh.  I've  not  been 
very  well  physically;  I've  had  a  ghastly  morning;  I'm 
homeless  and  wretchedly  poor — and  I'm  laughing  at  it 
all — the  whole  thing,  Molly.  What  do  you  suppose  is 
the  matter  with  me?  " 

"You're  not  in  love,  are  you?"  asked  Molly  with 
calm  suspicion. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  the  girl  with  a  quiet  conviction 
that  disconcerted  the  elder  woman. 

347 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Then  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  very  happy," 
said  Molly  honestly. 

Strelsa  considered :  "  Perhaps  it's  because  to-day  I 
feel  unusually  well.  I  slept — which  I  don't  usually." 

"  You're  becoming  devout,  too,"  said  Molly. 

"Devout?  Oh,  you  saw  me  reading  in  my  Testa 
ment.  .  .  .  It's  an  interesting  book,  Molly,"  she  said 
naively.  "  You  know,  as  children,  and  at  school,  and 
in  church  we  don't  read  it  with  any  intelligence — or 
listen  to  it  in  the  right  way.  .  .  .  People  are  odd.  We 
have  our  moments  of  contrition,  abasement,  fright,  ex 
altation  ;  but  at  bottom  we  know  that  our  religion  and  a 
fair  observance  of  it  is  a  sound  policy  of  insurance.  We 
accept  it  as  we  take  out  insurance  in  view  of  eventualities 
and  the  chance  of  future  fire " 

"  That's  flippant,"  said  Molly. 

"  I  really  didn't  mean  it  so.  ...  I  was  wondering 
about  it  all.  Recently,  re-reading  the  New  Testament,  I 
was  struck  by  finding  so  much  in  it  that  I  had  never 
noticed  or  understood.  .  .  .  You  know,  Molly,  after 
all  Truth  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world." 

"  So  I've  heard,"  observed  Molly  drily. 

"  Oh,  I've  heard  it,  too,  but  never  thought  what  it 
meant — until  recently.  You  see  Truth,  to  me,  was  just 
telling  it  as  often  as  possible.  I  never  thought  much 
about  it — that  it  is  the  basis  of  everything  worthy  and 
beautiful — such  as  old  pictures—  "  she  added  vaguely — 
"  and  those  things  that  silversmiths  like  Benvenuto 
Cellini  did " 

"  What?  " 

Strelsa  coloured :  "  Everything  worthy  is  founded 
on  Truth,"  she  said. 

"  That  sounds  like  Tupper  or  a  copy-book,"  said 
348 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Molly,  laughing.  "  For  surely  those  profound  reflec 
tions  never  emanated  originally  from  you  or  Rix — did 
they?" 

Strelsa,  much  annoyed,  picked  up  the  field  glasses 
and  levelled  them  on  the  river. 

Sir  Charles  was  out  there  in  a  launch  with  Chrysos 
Lacy.  Chrysos  fished  and  Sir  Charles  baited  her  hook. 

"  That's  a  touching  sight,"  said  Strelsa,  laughing. 

Molly  said  crossly :  "  Well,  if  you  don't  want  him, 
for  goodness'  sake  say  so  ! — and  let  me  have  some  credit 
with  the  Lacys  for  engineering  the  thing." 

"  Take  it,  darling ! "  laughed  the  girl,  "  take  the 
credit  and  let  the  cash  go — to  Chrysos !  " 

"  How  indelicate  you  can  be,  Strelsa !  " 

"  Oh,  I  am.  I'm  in  such  rude  health  that  it's  almost 
vulgar.  After  all,  Molly,  there's  an  immense  relief  in 
getting  rid  of  your  last  penny  and  knowing  nothing 
worse  can  happen  to  you." 

"  You  might  die." 

"  I  don't  care." 

"  Everybody  cares  whether  they  live  or  die." 

The  girl  looked  at  her,  surprised. 

"  I  don't,"  she  said,  "—really." 

"  Of  course  you  do." 

"But  why  should  I?" 

"  Nonsense,  Strelsa.  No  matter  how  they  crack  up 
Heaven,  nobody  is  in  a  hurry  to  go  there." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Heaven.  ...  I  was  just  cu 
rious  to  see  what  else  there  is — I'm  in  no  hurry,  but  it 
has  always  interested  me.  .  .  .  I've  had  a  theory  that 
perhaps  to  everybody  worthy  is  given,  hereafter,  ex 
actly  the  kind  of  heaven  they  expect — to  Buddhist, 
Brahman,  Mohammedan,  Christian — to  the  Shinto  priest 

349 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

as  well  as  to  the  Sagamore.  .  .  .  There's  plenty  of  time 
— I'm  in  no  hurry,  nor  would  it  be  too  ooon  to-morrow 
for  me  to  find  out  how  near  I  am  to  the  truth." 

"You're  morbid,  child!" 

"  Less  this  very  moment  than  for  years.  .  .  .  Molly, 
do  you  know  that  I  am  getting  well  ?  I  wish  you  knew 
how  well  I  feel." 

But  Molly  was  no  longer  listening.  High  above  the 
distant  hangars  where  the  men  had  gathered  since  early 
morning,  a  great  hawk-like  thing  was  soaring  in  cir 
cles.  And  already  the  distant  racket  of  another  huge 
winged  thing  came  to  her  ears  on  the  summer  wind. 

"  I  hope  Jim  will  be  careful,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

INTO  the  long  stables  at  South  Linden,  that  after 
noon,  Langly  Sprowl's  trembling  horse  was  led  limping, 
his  velvet  flanks  all  torn  by  spurs  and  caked  with  mud, 
his  tender  mouth  badly  lacerated. 

As  for  his  master,  it  seemed  that  the  ruin  of  the  ex 
pensive  hunter  and  four  hours'  violent  and  capricious 
exercise  in  his  reeking  saddle  had  merely  whetted  his 
appetite  for  more  violence;  and  he  had  been  tramping 
for  an  hour  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  library  in  his 
big  sprawling  house  when  Mr.  Kyte,  his  confidential  sec 
retary,  came  in  without  knocking. 

Sprowl  hearing  his  step  swung  on  him  savagely,  but 
Kyte  coolly  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  turned 
the  key. 

"  Ledwith  is  here,"  he  said. 

"  Ledwith,"  repeated  Sprowl,  mechanically. 

"  Yes,  he's  on  the  veranda.  They  said  you  were 
not  at  home.  He  said  he'd  wait*  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know.  He  acts  queerly." 

Langly's  protruding  eyes  became  utterly  expres 
sionless. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  in  dismissal. 

Kyte  still  lingered: 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  say  or  do  ?  " 

"  If  there  was  I'd  tell  you,  wouldn't  I?  " 

Kyte's  lowered  gaze  stole  upward  toward  his  em- 
351 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ployer,  sustained  his  expressionless  glare  for  a  second, 
then  shifted. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  unlocking  the  library  door;  "  I 
thought  he  might  be  armed,  that's  all." 

"Kyte!" 

Mr.  Kyte  turned  on  the  door-sill. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  ?  " 

"  Saying  what  ?  " 

"  That  you  think  this  fellow  Ledwith  may  be 
armed?" 

Kyte  stood  silent. 

"  I  ask  you  again,"  repeated  Sprowl,  "  why  you  in 
fer  that  this  man  might  have  armed  himself  to  visit  this 
house?" 

Kyte's  eyes  stole  upward,  were  instantly  lowered. 
Sprowl  walked  over  to  him. 

"  You're  paid  to  act,  not  think ;  do  you  under 
stand?  "  he  said  in  a  husky,  suppressed  voice;  but  his 
long  fingers  were  twitching. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Kyte. 

Sprowl's  lean  head  jerked ;  Kyte  went ;  and  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house  strode  back  into  the  library  and  re 
sumed  his  pacing. 

Boots,  spurs,  the  skirts  of  his  riding  coat,  even  his 
stock  were  stained  with  mud  and  lather ;  and  there  was 
a  spot  or  two  across  his  sun-tanned  cheeks. 

Presently  he  walked  to  the  bay-window  which  com 
manded  part  of  the  west  veranda,  and  looking  out 
through  the  lace  curtains  saw  Ledwith  sitting  there,  his 
sunken  eyes  fixed  on  the  westering  sun. 

The  man's  clothing  hung  loosely  on  his  frame,  show 
ing  bony  angles  at  elbow  and  knee.  Burrs  and  black 
swamp-mud  stuck  to  his  knickerbockers  and  golf-stock- 

352 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

ings ;  he  sat  very  still  save  for  a  constant  twitching  of 
the  muscles. 

The  necessity  for  nervous  and  physical  fatigue 
drove  Sprowl  back  into  the  library  to  tramp  up  and 
down  over  the  soft  old  Saraband  rugs,  up  and  down,  to 
and  fro,  and  across  sometimes,  ranging  the  four  walls 
with  the  dull,  aimless  energy  of  a  creature  which  long 
caging  is  rendering  mentally  unsound. 

Then  the  monotony  of  the  exercise  began  to  irritate 
instead  of  allaying  his  restlessness ;  he  went  to  the  bay- 
window  again,  saw  Ledwith  still  sitting  there,  stared  at 
him  with  a  ferocity  almost  expressionless,  and  strode 
out  into  the  great  hallway  and  through  the  servant- 
watched  doors  to  the  veranda. 

Ledwith  looked  up,  rose.  "  How  are  you,  Langly  ?  " 
he  said. 

Sprowl  nodded,  staring  him  insolently  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  pause,  then  LedwTith's  pallid  features 
twitched  into  a  crooked  smile. 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  over  one  or  two  matters  with  you 
before  I  leave,"  he  said. 

"  When  are  you  leaving  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  I  don't  know — to  the  Acremont  Inn  for  a  few  days. 
After  that — I  don't  know." 

Sprowl,  perfectly  aware  that  his  footman  was  listen 
ing,  wralked  out  across  the  lawn,  and  Ledwith  went  with 
him.  Neither  spoke.  Shadows  of  tall  trees  lay  like 
velvet  on  the  grass ;  the  crests  of  the  woods  beyond  grew 
golden,  their  depths  dusky  and  bluish.  Everywhere 
robins  were  noisily  at  supper,  tilting  for  earthworms 
on  the  lawns  ;  golden-winged  woodpeckers  imitated  them ; 

353 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

in  the  late  sunlight  the  grackles'  necks  were  rainbow 
tinted. 

On  distant  hillcrests  Sprowl  could  see  his  brood 
mares  feeding,  switching  their  tails  against  the  sky ;  far 
ther  away  sheep  dotted  hillside  pastures.  Farther  still 
the  woods  of  Witch-Hollow  lay  banded  with  sunshine  and 
shadow.  And  Sprowl's  protuberant  gaze  grew  fixed  and 
expressionless  as  he  swung  on  across  the  meadows  and 
skirted  the  first  grove  of  oaks,  huge  outlying  pickets  of 
his  splendid  forest  beyond. 

"  We  can  talk  here,"  said  Ledwith  in  a  voice  which 
sounded  hoarse  and  painful;  and,  swinging  around  on 
him,  Sprowl  saw  that  he  was  in  distress,  fighting  for 
breath  and  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  an  oak. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  talk  about?  "  said  Sprowl. 

The  struggle  for  breath  left  Ledwith  mute. 

"  Can't  you  walk  and  talk  at  the  same  time?  "  de 
manded  Sprowl.  "  I  need  exercise." 

"  I've  got  to  rest." 

"  Well,  then,  what  have  you  got  to  say  ? — because 
I'm  going  on.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway," 
he  added  sneeringly ;  "  dope?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  Ledwith  without  resentment. 

"What  else?" 

"  Anxiety." 

"  Oh.    Do  you  think  you  have  a  monopoly  of  that?  " 

Ledwith,  without  heeding  the  sneering  question,  went 
on,  still  resting  on  his  elbow  against  the  tree-trunk: 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Langly.  I  want  straight 
talk  from  you.  Do  I  get  it?  " 

"  You'll  get  it ;  go  on,"  said  Sprowl  contemptu 
ously. 

"  Then — my  wife  has  returned." 
354 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Your  ex-wife,"  corrected  Sprowl  without  a  shade 
of  expression  in  voice  or  features. 

"Yes,"  said  Ledwith— "  Mary.  I  left  the  house 
before  she  arrived,  on  my  way  to  Acremont  across  coun 
try.  She  and  your  aunt  drove  up  together.  I  saw  them 
from  the  hill." 

"  Very  interesting,"  said  Sprowl.     "  Is  that  all?  " 

Ledwith  detached  himself  from  the  tree  and  stood 
aside,  under  it,  looking  down  at  the  grass. 

"  You  are  going  to  marry  her  of  course,"  he  said. 

"  That,"  retorted  Sprowl,  "  is  none  of  your  busi 
ness." 

"  Because,"  continued  Ledwith,  not  heeding  him, 
"  that  is  the  only  thing  possible.  There  is  nothing  else 
for  her  to  do — for  you  to  do.  She  knows  it,  you  know 
it,  and  so  do  I." 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  said  Sprowl  coolly.  "  Is 
there  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Only  your  word  to  confirm  what  I  have  just  said." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Your  marriage  with  Mary." 

"  I  think  I  told  you  that  it  was  none  of  your  busi 
ness." 

"  Perhaps  you  did.  But  I've  made  it  my 
business." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"  Yes,  you  may  ask,  Langly,  and  I'll  tell  you.  It's 
because,  recently,  there  have  been  rumours  concerning 
you  and  a  Mrs.  Leeds.  That's  the  reason." 

Sprowl's  hands,  hanging  at  his  sides,  began  nerv 
ously  closing  and  unclosing: 

"Is  that  all,  Ledwith?" 

"  That's  all — when  you  have  confirmed  what  I  have 
355 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

said  concerning  the  necessity  for  your  marriage  with  the 
woman  you  debauched." 

"  You  lie,"  said  Langly. 

Ledwith  smiled.  "  No,"  he  said  wearily,  "  I  don't. 
She  admitted  it  to  me." 

"  That  is  another  lie." 

"  Ask  her.  She  didn't  care  what  she  said  to  me  any 
more  than  she  cared,  after  a  while,  what  she  did  to  me. 
You  made  her  yours,  soul  and  body ;  she  became  only 
your  creature,  caring  less  and  less  for  concealment  as 
her  infatuation  grew  from  coquetry  to  imprudence^from 
recklessness  to  effrontery.  .  .  .  It's  the  women  o*f  our 
sort,  who,  once  misled,  stop  at  nothing — not  the  men. 
Prudence  to  the  point  of  cowardice  is  the  amatory  char 
acteristic  of  your  sort.  ...  I  don't  mean  physical 
cowardice,"  he  added,  lifting  his  sunken  eyes  and  letting 
them  rest  on  Sprowl's  powerful  frame. 

"  Have  you  finished  ?  "  asked  the  latter. 

"  In  a  moment,  Langly.  I  am  merely  reminding  you 
of  what  has  happened.  Concerning  myself  I  have  noth 
ing  to  say.  Look  at  me.  You  know  what  I  was ;  you 
see  what  I  am.  I'm  not  whining;  it's  all  in  a  lifetime. 
And  the  man  who  is  not  fitted  to  take  care  of  what  is 
his,  loses.  That's  all." 

Sprowl's  head  was  averted  after  an  involuntary 
glance  at  the  man  before  him.  His  face  was  red — or  it 
may  have  been  the  ruddy  evening  sun  striking  flat 
across  it. 

Ledwith  said :  "  You  will  marry  her,  of  course.  But 
I  merely  wish  to  hear  you  say  so." 

Sprowl  swung  on  him,  his  thick  lips  receding: 

"  I'll  marry  whom  I  choose !  Do  you  understand 
that?" 

356 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Of  course.     But  you  will  choose  to  marry  her." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes.     Or — I'll  kill  you,"  he  said  seriously. 

Langly  stared  at  him,  every  vein  suddenly  dark  and 
swollen ;  then  his  bark  of  a  laugh  broke  loose. 

"  I  suppose  you've  got  it  in  your  pocket,"  he  said. 

Ledwith  fumbled  in  his  coat  pocket  and  produced  a 
dully  blued  weapon  of  heavy  calibre ;  and  Sprowl  walked 
slowly  up  to  him,  slapped  his  face,  took  the  revolver 
from  him,  and  flung  it  into  the  woods. 

"  Now  go  home  and  punch  yourself  full  of  dope,"  he 
said ;  swung  on  his  heel,  and  sauntered  off. 

Ledwith  looked  after  him,  one  bloodless  hand  rest 
ing  on  the  cheek  which  Sprowl  had  struck — watched  him 
out  of  sight.  Then,  patiently,  he  started  to  search  for 
the  weapon,  dropping  on  all-fours,  crawling,  peering, 
parting  the  ferns  and  bushes.  But  the  sun  was  low  and 
the  woods  dusky,  and  he  could  not  find  what  he  was 
looking  for.  So  he  sat  up  on  the  ground  among  the 
dead  leaves  of  other  years,  drew  from  his  pocket  what 
he  needed,  and  slowly  bared  his  scarred  arm  to  the 
shoulder. 

As  for  Sprowl,  his  vigorous  tread  lengthened  to  a 
swinging  stride  as  he  shouldered  his  way  through  a 
thicket  and  out  again  into  the  open. 

Already  he  scarcely  remembered  Ledwith  at  all,  or 
his  menace,  or  the  blow ;  scarcely  even  recollected  that 
Mary  Ledwith  had  returned  or  that  his  aunt  was  within 
driving  distance  of  his  own  quarters. 

A  dull  hot  anguish,  partly  rage,  possessed  him,  tor 
menting  brain  and  heart  incessantly  and  giving  him  no 
rest.  His  own  clumsy  madness  in  destroying  what  he 
believed  had  been  a  certainty — his  stupidity,  his  loss  of 

357 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

self-control,  not  only  in  betraying  passion  prematurely 
but  in  his  subsequent  violence  and  brutality,  almost 
drove  him  insane. 

Never  before  in  any  affair  with  women  had  he  for 
gotten  caution  in  any  crisis ;  his  had  been  a  patience  un 
shakable  when  necessary,  a  dogged,  driving  persistence 
when  the  time  came,  the  subtlety  of  absolute  inertness 
when  required.  But  above  all  and  everything  else  he 
has  been  a  master  of  patience,  and  so  a  master  of  him 
self  ;  and  so  he  had  usually  wron. 

And  now — now  in  this  crisis — a  crisis  involving  the 
loss  of  what  he  cared  for  enough  to  marry — if  he 
must  marry  to  have  his  way  with  her — what  was  to  be 
done  ? 

He  tried  to  think  coolly,  but  the  cinders  of  rage  and 
passion  seemed  to  stir  and  move  with  every  breath  he 
drew  awaking  the  wild  fire  within. 

He  would  try  to  reason  and  think  clearly — try  to 
retrace  matters  to  the  beginning  and  find  out  why  he  had 
blundered  when  everything  was  in  his  own  hands. 

It  was  his  aunt's  sudden  policy  that  betrayed  him 
into  a  premature  move — Mary  Ledwith's  return,  and 
his  aunt's  visit.  Mary  Ledwith  was  there  to  marry  him ; 
his  aunt  to  make  mischief  unless  he  did  what  was  ex 
pected  of  him. 

Leisurely  but  thoroughly  he  cursed  them  both  as  he 
walked  back  across  his  lawn.  But  he  was  already  think 
ing  of  Strelsa  again  when,  as  he  entered  the  wide  hall, 
his  aunt  waddled  across  the  rugs  of  the  drawing-room, 
pronouncing  his  name  with  unmistakable  decision.  And, 
before  the  servants,  he  swallowed  the  greeting  he  had 
hoped  to  give  her,  and  led  her  into  the  library. 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Langly !  "  she  exclaimed,  eyeing  his 
358 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

reeking  boots  and  riding-breeches ;  "  do  you  live  like  a 
pig  up  here?  " 

"  I've  been  out,"  he  said  briefly.  "  What  do  you 
want?" 

Her  little  green  eyes  lighted  up,  and  her  smile,  which 
was  fading,  she  forced  into  a  kind  of  fixed  grin. 

"  Your  polished  and  thoughtful  inquiry  is  charac 
teristic  of  you,"  she  said.  "  Mary  is  here,  and  I  want 
you  to  come  over  to  dinner." 

"  I'm  not  up  to  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  you  to  come." 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  not  up  to  it,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  you'd  better  come." 

"  Better  come?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,  better  come.  More  than  that,  Langly,  you'd 
better  behave  yourself,  or  I'll  make  New  York  too  hot 
to  hold  you." 

His  prominent  eyes  were  expressionless. 

uAh?"  he  remarked. 

"  Exactly,  my  friend.  Your  race  is  run.  You've 
done  one  thing  too  publicly  to  squirm  out  of  the  conse 
quences.  The  town  has  stood  for  a  good  deal  from  you. 
When  that  girl  at  the  Frivolity  Theatre  shot  herself, 
leaving  a  letter  directed  to  you,  the  limit  of  public  pa 
tience  was  nearly  reached.  You  had  to  go  abroad, 
didn't  you?  Well,  you  can't  go  abroad  this  time. 
Neither  London  nor  Paris  nor  Vienna  nor  Budapest — 
no,  nor  St.  Petersburg  nor  even  Constantinople  would 
stand  you !  Your  course  is  finished.  If  you've  an  ounce 
of  brains  remaining  you  know  that  you're  done  for  this 
time.  So  go  and  dress  and  come  over  to  dinner.  .  .  . 
And  don't  worry ;  I'll  keep  away  from  you  after  you're 
married." 

359 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You'll  keep  your  distance  before  that,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"  You're  mistaken.  Many  people  are  afraid  of  you, 
but  I  never  was  and  never  could  be.  You're  no  good ; 
you  never  were.  If  you  didn't  lug  my  name  about  with 
you  I'd  let  you  go  to  hell.  You'll  go  there  anyway,  but 
you'll  go  married  first." 

"  I  expect  to." 

"  Married  to  Mary  Ledwith,"  she  said  looking  at 
him. 

He  picked  up  a  cigar,  examined  it,  yawned,  then 
glanced  at  her: 

"  As  I  had — recently —  occasion  to  tell  Chester  Led 
with,  I'll  marry  whom  I  please.  Now  suppose  you  clear 
out." 

"  Are  you  dining  wyith  us  ?  " 

"  No." 

"What  time  may  we  expect  you  to-morrow?" 

"  At  no  time." 

"  Do  you  intend  to  marry  Mary  Ledwith?  " 

"  No." 

"Is  that  final?" 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Do  you  expect  to  marry  anybody  else?  " 

"  Yes !  "  he  shouted,  partly  rising  from  his  chair, 
his  narrow  face  distorted.  "  Yes,  I  do !  Now  you 
know,  don't  you  !  Is  the  matter  settled  at  last  ?  Do  you 
understand  clearly  ? — you  fat-headed,  meddlesome  old 
fool !  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  an  access  of  fury  and  began 
loping  up  and  down  the  room,  gesticulating,  almost 
mouthing  out  his  hatred  and  abuse — rendered  more  furi 
ous  still  by  the  knowledge  of  his  own  weakness  and  dis- 

360 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

integration — his  downfall  from  that  silent  citadel  of 
self-control  which  had  served  him  so  many  years  as  a 
stronghold  for  defiance  or  refuge. 

"  You  impertinent  old  woman !  "  he  shouted,  "  if 
you  don't  keep  your  fat  nose  out  of  my  affairs  I'll  set 
a  thousand  men  tampering  with  the  foundations  of 
your  investments !  Keep  your  distance  and  mind  your 
business — I  warn  you  now  and  for  the  last  time,  or 
else — "  He  swung  around  on  her,  and  the  jaw  muscles 
began  to  work — "  or  else  I'll  supply  the  Yellows  with  a 
few  facts  concerning  that  Englishman's  late  father  and 
yourself !  " 

Mrs.  Sprowl's  face  went  pasty-white ;  in  the  fat,  col 
ourless  expanse  only  the  deathless  fury  of  her  eyes 
seemed  alive. 

"  So  that  fetched  you,"  he  observed,  coolly.  "  I 
don't  want  to  give  you  apoplexy ;  I  don't  want  you 
messing  up  my  house.  I  merely  want  you  to  understand 
that  it's  dangerous  to  come  sniffing  and  nosing  around 
my  threshold.  You  do  understand,  I  guess." 

He  continued  his  promenade  but  presently  came  back 
to  her: 

"  You  know  well  enough  who  I  want  to  marry.  If 
you  say  or  do  one  thing  to  interfere  I'll  see  that  you 
figure  in  the  Yellows." 

He  thought  a  moment;  the  colour  slowly  returned 
to  her  face.  After  a  fit  of  coughing  she  struggled  to 
rise  from  her  chair.  He  let  her  pant  and  scuffle  and 
kick  for  a  while,  then  opened  the  door  and  summoned 
her  footman. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  cannot  drive  with  you  this  evening," 
he  said  quietly,  as  the  footman  supported  Mrs.  Sprowl 
to  her  feet,  "  but  I've  promised  the  Wycherlys.  Pray 

361 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

offer  my  compliments  and  friendly  wishes  to  Mrs.  Led- 
with." 

When  she  had  gone  he  walked  back  into  the  library, 
picked  up  the  telephone  and  finally  got  Molly  Wycherly 
on  the  wire. 

"  Won't  you  ask  me  to  dinner?  "  he  said.  "  I've  an 
explanation  to  make  to  Mrs.  Leeds  and  I'd  be  awfully 
obliged  to  you." 

There  was  a  silence,  then  Molly  said,  deliberately : 

"  You  must  be  a  very  absent-minded  young  man.  I 
saw  your  aunt  for  a  moment  this  afternoon  and  she  said 
that  you  are  dining  with  her  at  Mrs.  Ledwith's." 

"  She  was  mistaken — "  began  Sprowl  quietly,  but 
Molly  cut  him  short  with  a  laughing  "  good-bye,"  and 
hung  up  the  receiver. 

"  That  was  Langly,"  she  remarked,  turning  to 
Strelsa  who  was  already  dressed  for  dinner  and  who  had 
come  into  Molly's  boudoir  to  observe  the  hair-dressing 
and  comprehensive  embellishment  of  that  young  ma 
tron's  person  by  a  new  maid  on  probation. 

Strelsa's  upper  lip  curled  faintly,  then  the  happy 
expression  returned,  and  she  wratched  the  decorating  of 
Molly  until  the  maid  turned  her  out  in  the  perfection  of 
grooming  from  crown  to  toe. 

There  was  nobody  in  the  music-room.  Molly  turned 
again  to  Strelsa  as  they  entered : 

"  What  a  brute  he  is ! — asking  me  to  invite  him  here 
for  dinner  when  Mary  Ledwith  has  just  arrived." 

"Did  he  do  that?" 

"  Yes.  And  his  excuse  was  that  he  had  an  explana 
tion  to  make  you.  What  a  sneaking  way  of  doing  it !  " 

Strelsa  looked  out  of  the  dark  window  in  silence. 

Molly  said :  "  I  wish  he'd  go  away.  I  never  can 
362 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

look  at  him  without  thinking  of  Chester  Ledwith — and 
all  that  wretched  affair.  .  .  .  Not  that  I  am  sniffy 
about  Mary — the  poor  little  fool.  .  .  .  Anyway,"  she 
added  naively,  "  old  lady  Sprowl  has  fixed  her  status 
and  now  we  all  know  how  to  behave  toward  her." 

Strelsa,  arms  clasped  behind  her  back,  came  slowly 
forward  from  the  window : 

"  What  a  sorry  civilisation,"  she  said  thoughtfully, 
"  and  what  sorry  codes  we  frame  to  govern  it." 

"What?  "sharply. 

Strelsa  looked  at  her,  absently. 

"  Nobody  seems  to  be  ashamed  of  anything  any 
more,"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  "  The  only  thing  that 
embarrasses  us  is  what  the  outside  world  may  think  of 
us.  We  don't  seem  to  care  what  we  think  of  each 
other." 

Molly,  a  trifle  red,  asked  her  warmly  what  she 
meant. 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  realising  what  are  the  motives  that 
govern  us — the  majority  of  us — and  how  primitive 
they  are.  So  many  among  us  seem  to  be  moral  throw- 
backs — types  reappearing  out  of  the  mists  of  an  an 
cient  and  unmoral  past.  .  .  .  Echoes  of  primitive  ages 
when  nobody  knew  any  better — when  life  was  new,  and 
was  merely  life  and  nothing  else — fighting,  treacherous, 
cringing  life  which  knew  of  nothing  else  to  do  except  to 
eat,  sleep,  and  reproduce  itself — bully  the  weaker,  fawn 
on  the  stronger,  lie,  steal,  and  watch  out  'that  death 
should  not  interfere  with  the  main  chance." 

Molly,  redder  than  ever,  asked  her  again  what  she 
meant. 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  .  .  .  How  clean  the  woods  and 
fields  seem  after  a  day  indoors  with  many  people." 

363 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You  mean  we  all  need  moral  baths  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

Molly  smiled :  "  For  a  moment  I  thought  you  meant 
that  I  do." 

Strelsa  smiled,  too: 

"  You're  a  good  wife,  Molly ;  and  a  good  friend. 
...  I  wish  you  had  a  baby." 

"  I'm— going  to." 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment;  then  Strelsa 
caught  her  in  her  arms. 

"Really?" 

Molly  nodded: 

"  That's  why  I  worry  about  Jim  taking  chances  in 
his  aeroplane." 

"  He  mustn't !  He's  got  to  stop !  What  can  he  be 
thinking  of !  "  cried  Strelsa  indignantly. 

"  But  he — doesn't  know." 

"You  haven't  told  him?" 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I— don't  know  how  he'll  take  it." 

"What?" 

Molly  flushed :  "  We  didn't  want  one.  I  don't  know 
what  he'll  say.  We  didn't  care  for  them " 

Strelsa's  angry  beauty  checked  her  with  its  silent 
scorn ;  suddenly  her  pretty  head  fell  forward  on  Strelsa's 
breast : 

"  Don't  look  that  way  at  me !  I  was  a  fool.  How 
was  I  to  know — anything?  I'd  never  had  one.  .  .  . 
You  can't  know  whether  you  want  a  baby  or  not  until 
you  have  one.  ...  I  know  now.  I'm  crazy  about  it. 
...  I  think  it  would — would  kill  me  if  Jim  is  an 
noyed " 

364 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"He  won't  be,  darling!"  whispered  Strelsa.  "Don't 
mind  what  he  says  anyway.  He's  only  a  man.  He 
never  even  knew  as  much  about  it  as  you  did.  What  do 
men  know,  anyway?  Jim  is  a  dear — just  the  regular 
sort  of  man  interested  in  business  and  sport  and 
probably  afraid  that  a  baby  might  interfere  with  both. 
What  does  he  know  about  it?  ...  Besides  he's  too 
decent  to  be  annoyed " 

"  I'm  afraid — I  can't  stand — even  his  indiffer 
ence — "  whimpered  Molly. 

Strelsa,  holding  her  clasped  to  her  breast,  started  to 
speak,  but  a  noise  of  men  in  the  outer  hall  silenced 
her — the  aviators  returning  from  their  hangars  and 
gathering  in  the  billiard-room  for  a  long  one  before 
dressing. 

"  Wait,"  whispered  Strelsa,  gently  disengaging  her 
self — "  wait  just  a  moment " 

And  she  was  out  in  the  hall  in  an  instant,  just  in 
time  to  touch  Jim  on  the  arm  as  he  closed  the  file  toward 
the  billiard-room. 

"  Hello,  Sweetness !  "  he  said,  pivoting  on  his  heels 
and  seizing  her  hands.  "  Are  you  coming  in  to  try  a 
cocktail  with  us  ?  " 

"  Jim,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"  Shoot,"  he  said.  "  And  if  you  don't  hurry  I'll 
kiss  you." 

"  Listen,  please.  Molly  is  in  the  music-room.  Make 
her  tell  you." 

"Tell  me  what?" 

"  Ask  her,  Jim.  .  .  .  And,  if  you  care  one  atom  for 
her — be  happy  at  what  she  tells  you — and  tell  her  that 
you  are.  Will  you?  " 

He  stared  at  her,  then  lost  countenance.  Then  he 
365 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

looked  at  her  in  a  panicky  way  and  started  to  go,  but 
she  held  on  to  him  with  determination: 

"  Smile  first !  " 

"  Thunder !     I " 

"  Smile.     Oh,  Jim,  isn't  there  any  decency  in  men?  " 

His  mind  was  working  like  mad;  he  stared  at  her, 
then  through  the  astonishment  and  consternation  on 
his  good-looking  features  a  faint  grin  broke  out. 

"  All  right,"  she  whispered,  and  let  him  go. 

Molly,  idling  at  the  piano,  heard  his  tread  behind 
her,  and  looked  up  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Hello,  Jim,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"  Hello,  ducky.  Strelsa  says  you  have  something  to 
tell  me." 

"I— Jim?" 

"  So  she  said.  So  I  cut  out  a  long  one  to  find  out 
what  it  is.  What's  up,  ducky?  " 

Molly's  gaze  grew  keener :  "  Did  that  child  tell 
you?" 

"  She  said  that  you  had  something  to  tell  me." 

"ZKdshe?" 

"  No!     Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  either?  " 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  opposite  her;  she  sat  on 
the  piano-stool  considering  him  for  a  while  in  silence. 
Then,  dropping  her  arms  with  a  helpless  little 
gesture : 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  baby.  Are  you — an 
noyed?" 

For  a  second  he  sat  as  though  paralysed,  and  the 
next  second  he  had  her  in  his  arms,  the  grin  breaking  out 
from  utter  blankness. 

"  You're  a  corker,  ducky !  "  he  whispered.  "  You 
for  me  all  the  time !  " 

366 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"Jim!  .   .   .  Really?" 

"  Surest  thing  you  know!  Which  is  it? — boy  or — 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  dear — I'm  not  accustomed 
to  the  etiquette.  But  I'm  delighted,  ducky,  over 
whelmed  !  " 

"  Oh,  Jim !  I'm  so  glad.  And  I'm  crazy  about  it — 
perfectly  mad  about  it.  ...  And  you're  a  dear  to 
care- 

"  Certainly  I  care !  What  do  you  take  me  for — a 
wooden  Indian !  "  he  exclaimed  virtuously.  "  Come  on 
and  we'll  celebrate " 

"  But,  Jim !     We  can't  tell  people." 

"  Oh — that's  the  christening.  I  forgot,  ducky. 
No,  we  can't  talk  about  it  of  course.  But  I'll  do  any 
thing  you  say " 

"WTill  you?" 

"Will  I?     Watch  me!" 

"  Then — then  don't  take  out  the  Stinger  for  a  while. 
Do  you  mind,  dear?  " 

"What!"  he  said,  jaw  dropping. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,  Jim.  I  was  a  good  sport  before ; 
you  know  I  was.  But  my  nerve  has  gone.  I  can't  take 
chances  now ;  I  want  you  to  see — it " 

After  a  moment  he  nodded. 

"  Sure,"  he  said.  "  It's  like  Lent.  You've  got  to 
offer  up  something.  ...  If  you  feel  that  way — "  he 
sighed  unconsciously — "  I'll  lock  up  the  hangar  un 
til " 

"Oh,  darling!     Will  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  that  desolate  young  man,  and  kissed 
his  wife  without  a  scowl.  He  had  behaved  pretty  well 
— about  like  the  majority  of  husbands  outside  of  popu 
lar  romances. 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

The  amateur  aeronauts  left  in  the  morning  before 
anybody  was  stirring  except  the  servants — Vincent 
Wier,  Lester  Caldera,  the  Van  Dynes  and  the  rest,  bag, 
baggage,  and,  later,  two  aeroplanes  packed  and  destined 
for  Barent  Van  Dyne's  Long  Island  estate  where  there 
was  to  be  some  serious  flying  attempted  over  the  flat 
and  dusty  plains  of  that  salubrious  island. 

Sir  Charles  Mallison  was  leaving  that  same  day, 
later;  and  there  were  to  be  no  more  of  Jim's  noisy 
parties ;  and  now  under  the  circumstances,  no  parties  of 
Molly's,  either;  because  Molly  was  becoming  nervous 
and  despondent  and  a  mania  for  her  husband  possessed 
her — the  pretty  resurgence  of  earlier  sentiment  which, 
if  not  more  than  comfortably  dormant,  buds  charmingly 
again  at  a  time  like  this. 

Also  she  wanted  Strelsa,  and  nobody  beside  these 
two;  and  although  she  liked  parties  of  all  sorts  includ 
ing  Jim's  sporting  ones,  and  although  she  liked  Sir 
Charles  immensely,  she  was  looking  forward  to  comfort 
of  an  empty  house  with  only  her  husband  to  decorate 
the  landscape  and  Strelsa  to  whisper  to  in  morbid  mo 
ments. 

For  Chrysos  was  going  to  Newport,  Sir  Charles  and 
her  maid  accompanying  her  as  far  as  New  York  from 
where  the  Baronet  meant  to  sail  the  next  day. 

His  luggage  had  already  gone ;  his  man  was  packing 
when  Sir  Charles  sauntered  out  over  the  dew-wet  lawn, 
a  sprig  of  sweet-william  in  his  lapel,  tall,  clear-skinned, 
nice  to  look  upon. 

What  he  really  thought  of  what  he  had  seen  in 
America,  of  the  sort  of  people  who  had  entertained  him, 
of  the  grotesque  imitation  of  exotic  society — or  of  a 
certain  sort  of  it — nobody  really  knew.  Doubtless  his 

368 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

estimate  was  inclined  to  be  a  kindly  one,  for  he  was 
essentially  that — a  philosophical,  chivalrous,  and  mod 
est  man ;  and  if  his  lines  had  fallen  in  places  where 
vulgarity,  extravagance,  and  ostentation  predominated 
— if  he  had  encountered  little  real  cultivation,  less  eru 
dition,  and  almost  nothing  worthy  of  sympathetic  in 
terest,  he  never  betrayed  either  impatience  or  contempt. 

He  had  come  for  one  reason  only — the  same  reason 
that  had  brought  him  to  America  for  the  first  time — 
to  ask  Strelsa  Leeds  to  marry  him. 

He  was  man  enough  to  understand  that  she  did  not 
care  for  him  that  way,  soldier  enough  to  face  his  fate, 
keen  enough,  long  since,  to  understand  that  Quarren 
meant  more  to  the  woman  he  cared  for  than  any  other 
man. 

Cool,  self-controlled,  he  watched  every  chance  for 
an  opening  in  his  own  behalf.  No  good  chance  pre 
sented  itself.  So  he  made  one  and  offered  himself  with 
a  dignity  and  simplicity  that  won  Strelsa's  esteem  but 
not  her  heart. 

After  that  he  stayed  on,  not  hoping,  but  merely  be 
cause  he  liked  her.  Later  he  remained  because  of  a 
vague  instinct  that  he  might  as  well  be  on  hand  while 
Strelsa  went  through  the  phase  with  Langly  Sprowl. 
But  he  was  a  wise  man,  and  weeks  ago  he  had  seen  the 
inevitable  outcome.  Also  he  had  divined  Quarren's  in 
fluence  in  the  atmosphere,  had  watched  for  it,  sensed  it,, 
seen  it  very  gradually  materialise  in  a  score  of  acts  and 
words  of  which  Strelsa  herself  was  totally  unconscious. 

Then,  too,  the  afternoon  before,  he  had  encountered 
Sprowl  riding  furiously  with  reeking  spurs,  after  his 
morning's  gallop  with  Strelsa;  and  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  man's  face ;  and  that  was  enough. 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

So  there  was  really  nothing  to  keep  him  in  America 
any  longer.  He  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  own  kind — 
into  real  life  again,  among  people  of  real  position  and 
real  elegance,  where  live  topics  were  discussed,  where 
live  things  were  attempted  or  accomplished,  where  what 
ever  was  done,  material  or  immaterial,  was  done  thor 
oughly  and  well. 

There  was  not  one  thing  in  America,  now,  to  keep 
him  there — except  a  warm  and  kindly  affection  for  his 
little  friend  Chrysos  Lacy  with  whom  he  had  been 
thrown  so  constantly  at  Witch-Hollow. 

Strolling  across  the  lawn,  he  thought  of  her  with 
warm  gratitude.  In  her  fresh  and  unspoiled  youth  he 
had  found  relief  from  a  love  unreturned,  a  cool,  sweet 
antidote  to  passion,  a  balm  for  loneliness  most  exquisite 
-and  delightful. 

The  very  perfection  of  comradeship  it  had  been,  full 
•of  charming  surprises  as  well  as  a  rest  both  mental  and 
physical.  For  Chrysos  made  few  demands  on  his  in 
tellect — that  is,  at  first  she  had  made  very  few.  Later 
— within  the  past  few  weeks,  he  remembered  now  his 
surprise  to  find  how  much  there  really  was  to  the  young 
girl — and  that  perhaps  her  age  and  inexperience  alone 
marked  any  particular  intellectual  chasm  between 
them. 

Thinking  of  these  things  he  sauntered  on  across 
country,  and  after  a  while  came  to  the  grounds  of  the 
Ledwith  place,  wondering  a  little  that  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Sprowl  the  evening  before  should  have  requested  him  to 
present  himself  at  so  early  an  hour. 

A  man  took  his  card,  returned  presently  saying  that 
Mrs.  Ledwith  had  not  yet  risen,  but  that  Mrs.  Sprowl 
would  receive  him. 

370 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

Conducted  to  the  old  lady's  apartments  he  was 
ushered  into  a  dressing-room  done  in  pastel  tints,  and 
which  hideously  set  forth  the  colouring  and  proportions 
of  Mrs.  Sprowl  in  lace  bed-attire,  bolstered  up  in  a  big 
cane-backed  chair. 

"  I'm  ill,"  she  said  hoarsely ;  "  I  have  been  ill  all 
night — sitting  here  because  I  can't  lie  down.  I'd 
strangle  if  I  lay  down." 

He  held  her  hand  in  his  firm,  sun-tanned  grasp,, 
looking  down  compassionately : 

"  Awf'lly  sorry,"  he  said  as  though  he  meant  it. 

The  old  lady  peered  up  at  him : 

"You're  sailing  to-morrow?" 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  When  do  you  return  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  no  plans  to  return." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  you've  given  up  the  fight?  " 

"  There  was  never  any  fight,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  scowled: 

"  Has  that  heartless  girl  refused  you  again,  Sir- 
Charles?  " 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Sprowl,  you  are  too  much  my  partisan- 
Mrs.  Leeds  knows  better  than  you  or  I  where  her  heart 
is  really  inclined.  And  you  and  I  can  scarcely  ques 
tion  her  decision." 

"  Do  you  think  for  a  moment  it  is  inclined  toward 
that  miserable  nephew  of  mine  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

"  Then — do  you  mean  young  Quarren?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  he  said  smiling. 

"  I'm  glad  of  it !  "  she  said  angrily.  "  If  it  was  not. 
to  be  you  I'm  glad  that  it  may  be  Rix.  It — it  would 
have  killed  me  to  see  her  fall  into  Langly's  hands.  .  .  . 

371 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

I'm  ill  on  account  of  him — his  shocking  treatment  of  me 
last  evening.  It  was  a  brutal  scene — one  of  those  ter 
rible  family  scenes! — and  he  threatened  me — cursed 
me " 

She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  trembling  all  over 
her  fat  body ;  then  they  snapped  open  again  with  the 
old  fire  undiminished : 

"  Before  I've  finished  with  Langly  he'll  realise  who 
has  hold  of  him.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  well.  I'm  going  to 
Carlsbad.  Shall  I  see  you  there  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  You  are  going  back  into  everything,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes." 

"  To  forget  her,  I  suppose." 

He  said  pleasantly: 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  forget  her.  One  prefers  to  think 
often  of  such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Leeds.  There  are  not 
many  like  her.  It  is  something  of  a  privilege  to  have 
cared  for  her,  and  the  memory  is  not — painful." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  glared  at  him;  and,  as  she  thought  of 
Langly,  of  Strelsa,  of  the  collapse  of  her  own  schemes, 
the  baffled  rage  began  to  smoulder  in  her  tiny  green  eyes 
till  they  dwindled  and  dwindled  to  a  pair  of  phosphor 
escent  sparks  imbedded  in  fat. 

"  I  did  my  best,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "  I'm  not  de 
feated  if  you're  not.  Say  the  word  and  I'll  start  some 
thing — "  And  suddenly  she  remembered  Langly's  threat 
involving  the  memory  of  a  dead  man  whose  only  son  now 
stood  before  her. 

She  knew  that  her  words  were  vain,  her  boast  empty ; 
she  knew  there  was  nothing  more  for  her  to  do — noth 
ing  even  that  Sir  Charles  might  do  toward  winning 
Strelsa  without  also  doing  the  only  thing  in  the  world 

372 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

which  could  really  terrify  herself.  Even  at  the  mere 
thought  of  it  she  trembled  again,  and  fear  forced  her 
to  speech  born  of  fear: 

"  Perhaps  it  is  best  for  you  to  go,"  she  faltered. 
"  Absence  is  a  last  resort.  ...  It  may  be  well  to  try 
it " 

He  bent  over  and  took  her  hand : 

"  There  is  no  longer  even  a  last  resort,"  he  said 
kindly.  "  I  am  quite  reconciled.  She  is  different  from 
any  other  woman ;  ours  was  and  is  a  high  type  of 
friendship.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  lately,  I  have  wondered 
whether  it  ever  could  have  been  any  more  than  that  to 
either  of  us." 

Mrs.  Sprowl  looked  up  at  him,  her  face  so  altered 
and  softened  that  his  own  grew  graver. 

"  You  are  like  your  father,"  she  said  unsteadily. 
"  It  was  my  privilege  to  share  his  friendship.  .  .  .  And 
his  friendship  was  of  that  kind — high-minded,  generous, 
pure — asking  no  more  than  it  gave — no  more  than  it 
gave " 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  Sir  Charles's  hands,  let 
it  rest  there  an  instant,  then  averting  her  face  motioned 
his  dismissal. 

He  went  with  a  pleasant  and  gentle  word  or  two; 
she  sat  bolt  upright  among  her  silken  pillows,  lips 
grimly  compressed,  but  on  her  tightly  closed  eyelids 
tears  trembled. 

Sir  Charles  drew  a  long  deep  breath  in  the  outer 
sunshine,  filling  his  lungs  with  the  fragrant  morning 
air.  Hedges  still  glistened  with  spiders'  tapestry ;  the 
birds  which  sulked  all  day  in  their  early  moulting-fever 
still  sang  a  little  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  and  he 
listened  to  them  as  he  walked  while  his  quiet,  impartial 

373 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

eye  ranged  over  the  lovely  rolling  country,  dew-washed 
and  exquisite  under  a  cloudless  sky. 

Far  away  he  saw  the  chimneys  of  Langly  Sprowl's 
sprawling  country-seat,  smoke  rising  from  two,  but  he 
saw  nothing  of  the  angry  horseman  of  the  day  before. 
Once,  in  the  distance  on  the  edge  of  a  copse,  he  saw  a 
man  creeping  about  on  all-fours,  evidently  searching  for 
some  lost  object  in  the  thicket.  Looking  back  from  a 
long  way  off  he  saw  him  still  searching  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  and  wondered  at  his  patience,  half  inclined  to  go 
back  and  aid  him. 

But  about  that  time  one  of  Sprowl's  young  bulls 
came  wralking  over  toward  him  with  such  menacing  ob 
servations  and  deportment  that  Sir  Charles  promptly 
looked  about  him  for  an  advance  to  the  rear-front — a 
manoeuvre  he  had  been  obliged  to  learn  in  the  late  Trans 
vaal  unpleasantness. 

And  at  the  same  moment  he  saw  Chrysos  Lacy. 

There  was  no  time  for  explanations ;  clearly  she  was 
too  frightened  to  stir ;  so  he  quietly  picked  her  up  on  his 
-advance  to  the  rear-front,  carrying  her  in  the  first-aid 
style  approved  by  the  H.  B.  M.  medical  staff,  and  scaled 
the  five-bar  fence  as  no  barrier  had  ever  been  scaled  at 
Aldershot  or  Olympia  by  any  warrior  in  khaki  or  scar- 
Jet  tunic. 

"  Th-thank  you,"  said  Chrysos,  unwinding  her  arms 
from  the  baronet's  neck  as  the  bull  came  trotting  up  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fence  and  bellowed  at  them.  Not 
the  slightest  atom  of  fright  remained,  only  a  wild-rose 
tint  in  her  cheeks.  She  considered  the  bull,  absently, 
patted  a  tendril  of  hair  into  symmetry ;  but  the  breeze 
loosened  it  again,  and  she  let  it  blow  across  her  cheek. 

"  We  should  have  been  in  South  Africa  together," 
374 


'And  it  is  to  be 


your  last  breakfast.'" 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

said    Sir    Charles.      "  We   manoeuvre   beautifully    as    a 
unit." 

The  girl  laughed,  then  spying  more  wild  straw 
berries — the  quest  of  which  had  beguiled  her  into  hostile 
territory — dropped  on  her  knees  and  began  to  explore. 

The  berries  were  big  and  ripe — huge  drops  of  crim 
son  honey  hanging  heavily,  five  to  a  stalk.  The  meadow- 
grass  was  red  with  them,  and  Sir  Charles,  without  more 
ado,  got  down  on  all-fours  and  started  to  gather  them 
with  all  the  serious  and  thorough  determination  char 
acteristic  of  that  warrior. 

"  You're  not  to  eat  any,  yet,"  said  Chrysos. 

"  Of  course  not ;  they're  for  your  breakfast  I  take 
it,"  he  said. 

"  For  yours." 

He  straightened  up  on  his  knees:  "  For  mine?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  didn't  go  wandering  afield  at  this  hour  to 
pick  wild  strawberries  for  my  breakfast !  "  he  said  in 
credulously. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  the  girl ;  and  continued  explor 
ing,  parting  the  high  grass-stems  to  feel  for  and  detach 
some  berry-loaded  stem. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  returning  to  his  labours, 
"  that  I  am  quite  overcome  by  your  thought  of  me  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  We  are  friends.  .  .  .  And  it  is  to  be  your 
last  breakfast." 

There  was  not  the  slightest  tremor  in  her  voice,  but 
her  pretty  face  was  carefully  turned  away  so  that  if 
there  was  to  be  anything  to  notice  in  the  features  he 
could  not  notice  it. 

"  I'll  miss  you  a  lot,"  he  said. 

"  And  I  you,  Sir  Charles." 
375 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You'll  be  over,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  That  will  be  jolly,"  he  said,  sitting  back  on  his 
heels  to  rest,  and  to  watch  her — to  find  pleasure  in  her 
youth  and  beauty  as  she  moved  gracefully  amid  the 
fragrant  grasses,  one  little  sun-tanned  hand  clasping  a 
great  bouquet  of  the  crimson  fruit  which  nodded  heavily 
amid  tufts  of  trefoil  leaves. 

In  the  barred  shadow  of  the  pasture-fence  they 
rested  from  their  exertions,  she  rearranging  their  bou 
quets  of  berries  and  tying  them  fast  with  grass-stems. 

"  It  has  been  a  pleasant  comradeship,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  found  it  so,  too?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  appeared  to  be  so  intent,  so  absorbed  on  her 
bouquet  tying  that  he  involuntarily  leaned  nearer  to 
watch  her.  A  fragrance  faintly  fresh  seemed  to  grow 
in  the  air  around  him  as  the  hill-breeze  stirred  her  hair. 
If  it  came  from  the  waving  grass-tops,  or  the  honeyed 
fruit  or  from  her  hair,  or  perhaps  from  those  small, 
smooth  hands,  he  did  not  know. 

For  a  long  while  they  sat  there  without  speaking, 
she  steadily  intent  on  her  tying.  Then,  while  still  busy 
with  a  cluster,  her  slim  fingers  hesitated,  wavered,  re 
laxed;  her  hands  fell  to  her  lap,  and  she  remained  so, 
head  bent,  motionless. 

After  a  moment  he  spoke,  but  she  made  no  answer. 

Through  and  through  him  shot  the  thrilling  compre 
hension  of  that  exquisite  avowal,  childlike  in  its  silent 
directness,  charming  in  its  surprise.  A  wave  of  tender 
ness  and  awe  mounted  within  him,  touching  his  bronzed 
cheeks  with  a  deeper  colour. 

376 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  If  you  will,  Chrysos,"  he  said  in  a  still  voice. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  directly  at  him,  and 
in  her  questioning  gaze  there  was  nothing  of  fear — 
merely  the  question. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  go,"  she  said. 

"  I  can't  go — alone." 

"  Could  you — care  for  me?  " 

"  I  love  you,  Chrysos." 

Her  eyes  widened  in  wonder: 

"  You — you  don't  love  me — do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  do.  Will  you  marry  me, 
Chrysos?" 

Her  fascinated  gaze  met  his  in  silence.  He  drew 
her  close  to  his  shoulder;  she  laid  her  cheek  against  it. 


CHAPTER    XV 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  first  week  in  August  Strelsa 
wrote  to  Quarren : 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  you  realise  how  my 
attitude  toward  everything  is  altering.  Things  which 
seemed  important  no  longer  appear  so  in  the  sunlit  tran 
quillity  of  this  lovely  place.  Whatever  it  is  that  seems 
to  be  changing  me  in  various  ways  is  doing  it  so  subtly, 
yet  so  inexorably,  that  I  scarcely  notice  any  difference 
in  myself  until  some  morning  I  awake  with  such  a 
delicious  sense  of  physical  well-being  and  such  a  men 
tal  happiness  apropos  of  nothing  at  all  except  the  mere 
awaking  into  the  world  again,  that,  thinking  it  over,  I 
cannot  logically  account  for  it. 

"  Because,  Rix,  my  worldly  affairs  seem  to  be  going 
from  bad  to  worse.  I  know  it  perfectly  well,  yet  where 
is  that  deadly  fear  ? — where  is  the  dismay,  the  alternate 
hours  of  panic  and  dull  lethargy — the  shrinking  from 
a  future  which  only  yesterday  seemed  to  threaten  me 
with  more  than  I  had  strength  to  endure — menace  me 
with  what  I  had  neither  the  will  nor  the  desire  to  resist? 

"  Gone,  my  friend !  And  I  am  either  a  fool  or  a 
philosopher,  but  whichever  I  am,  I  am  a  happy  one. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you  something.  Last  winter  when 
they  fished  me  out  of  my  morbid  seclusion,  I  thought 
that  the  life  I  then  entered  upon  was  the  only  panacea. 

378 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

for  the  past,  the  only  oblivion,  the  only  guarantee  for 
the  future. 

"  Now  I  suppose  I  have  gone  to  the  other  extreme, 
because,  let  me  tell  you  what  I've  done.  Will  you 
laugh?  I  can't  help  it  if  you  do;  I've  bought  a  house! 
What  do  you  think  of  that? 

"  The  owner  took  back  a  mortgage,  but  I  don't 
care.  I  paid  so  very  little  for  it,  and  thirty  acres  of 
woods  and  fields — and  it  is  a  darling  house! — built  in 
the  eighteenth  century  and  not  in  good  repair,  but  it's 
mine !  mine  !  mine ! — and  it  may  need  paint  and  plumb 
ing  and  all  sorts  of  things  which  perhaps  make  for 
human  happiness  and  perhaps  do  not.  But  I  tell  you  I 
really  don't  care. 

"  And  how  I  did  it  was  this :  I  took  what  they  offered 
for  my  laces  and  jewels — about  a  third  of  ^heir  value 
— but  it  paid  every  debt  and  left  me  with  enough  to  buy 
my  sweet  old  house  up  here. 

"  But  that's  not  all !  I've  rented  my  town  house 
furnished  for  a  term  of  five  years  at  seven  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year!  Isn't  it  wonderful? 

"  And  that  is  not  all,  either.  I  am  going  into  busi 
ness,  Rix!  Don't  dare  laugh.  Jim  has  made  an  ar 
rangement  with  an  independent  New  York  florist,  and 
I'm  going  to  grow  flowers  under  glass  for  the  Metro 
politan  market. 

"  And,  if  I  succeed,  I  may  try  fruits  outdoors  and 
in.  My  small  brain  is  humming  with  schemes,  millions 
of  them.  Isn't  it  heavenly  ? 

"  Besides,  from  my  second-story  windows  I  shall 
be  able  to  see  Molly's  chimneys  above  the  elms.  And 
Molly  is  going  to  remain  here  all  winter,  because,  Rix 
— and  this  is  a  close  secret — a  little  heir  or  heiress  is 

379 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

coming  to  make  this  House  of  Wycherly  *  an  habitation 
enforced  ' — and  a  happier  habitation  than  it  has  been 
since  they  bought  it. 

"  So  you  see  I  shall  have  neighbours  all  winter — two 
neighbours,  for  Mrs.  Ledwith  is  wretchedly  ill  and  her 
physicians  have  advised  her  to  remain  here  all  winter. 
Poor  child — for  she  is  nothing  else,  Rix — I  met  her  for 
the  first  time  when  I  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Sprowl.  She's 
so  young  and  so  empty-headed,  just  a  shallow,  hare 
brained,  little  thing  who  had  no  more  moral  idea  of 
sin  than  a  humming-bird — nor  perhaps  has  she  any 
now  except  that  the  world  has  hurt  her  and  broken  her 
wings  and  damaged  her  plumage ;  and  the  sunlight  in 
which  she  sparkled  for  a  summer  has  faded  to  a  chill 
gray  twilight ! — Oh,  Rix,  it  is  really  pitiful ;  and  some 
how  I  can't  seem  to  remember  whether  she  was  guilty 
or  not,  because  she's  so  ill,  so  broken — lying  here  amid 
the  splendour  of  her  huge  house — 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Sprowl  is  on  her  way  to  Carls 
bad.  You  haven't  written  me  what  took  place  in  your 
last  interview  with  her;  and  I've  asked  you,  twice. 
Won't  you  tell  me? 

"  Langly,  thank  goodness,  never  disturbs  us.  And, 
Rix,  do  you  know  that  he  has  never  been  to  call  on  Mary 
Ledwith?  He  keeps  to  his  own  estate  and  nobody  even 
sees  him.  Which  is  all  I  ask  at  any  rate. 

"  So  Sir  Charles  called  on  you  and  told  you  about 
Chrysos?  Isn't  Sir  Charles  the  most  darling  man  you 
ever  knew?  /  never  knew  such  a  man.  There  is  not  one 
atom  of  anything  small  or  unworthy  in  his  character. 
And  I  tell  you  very  frankly  that,  thinking  about  him  at 
times,  I  am  amazed  at  myself  for  not  falling  in  love  with 
him. 

380 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Which  is  proof  sufficient  that  if  I  couldn't  care 
for  him  I  cannot  ever  care  for  any  man.  Don't  you 
think  so? 

"  Now  all  this  letter  has  been  devoted  to  matters 
concerning  myself  and  not  one  line  to  you  and  the  ex 
citing  success  you  and  Lord  Dankmere  are  making  of 
your  new  business. 

"  Oh,  Rix,  I  am  not  indifferent ;  all  the  time  I  have 
been  writing  to  you,  that  has  been  surging  and  laughing 
in  my  heart — like  some  delicious  aria  that  charmingly 
occupies  your  mind  while  you  go  happily  about  other 
matters — happy  because  the  ceaseless  melody  that  en 
chants  you  makes  you  so. 

"  I  have  read  your  letter  so  many  times,  over  and 
over;  and  always  the  same  thrill  of  excitement  begins 
when  I  come  to  the  part  where  you  begin  to  suspect 
that  under  the  daubed  surface  of  that  canvas  there  may 
be  something  worth  while. 

"  Is  it  really  and  truly  a  Van  Dyck?  Is  there  any 
chance  that  it  is  not?  Is  it  possible  that  all  these  years 
none  of  Dankmere's  people  suspected  what  was  hidden 
under  the  aged  paint  and  varnish  of  that  tiresome  old 
British  landscape? 

"  And  it  remained  for  you  to  suspect  it ! — for  you 
to  discover  it  ?  Oh,  Rix,  I  am  proud  of  you ! 

"  And  how  perfectly  wonderful  it  is  that  now  you 
know  its  history,  when  it  was  supposed  to  have  disap 
peared,  where  it  has  remained  ever  since  under  its  igno 
ble  integument  of  foolish  paint. 

"  No,  I  promise  not  to  say  one  word  about  it  until 
I  have  your  permission.  I  understand  quite  well  why 
you  desire  to  keep  the  matter  from  the  newspapers  for 
the  present.  But — won't  it  make  you  and  Lord  Dank- 

381 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

mere  rich?  Tell  me — please  tell  me.  I  don't  want 
money  for  myself  any  more,  but  I  do  want  it  for  you. 
You  need  it ;  you  can  do  so  much  with  it,  use  it  so  in 
telligently,  so  gloriously,  make  the  world  better  with  it, 
— make  it  more  beautiful,  and  people  happier. 

"  What  a  chasm,  Rix,  between  what  we  were  a  year 
ago,  and  what  we  care  to  be — what  we  are  trying  to 
be  to-day!  Sometimes  I  think  of  it,  not  unhappily, 
merely  wondering. 

"Toward  what  goal  were  we  moving  a  year  ago? 
What  was  there  to  be  of  such  lives? — what  at  the 
end?  Why,  there  was,  for  us,  no  more  significance 
in  living  than  there  is  to  any  overfed  animal ! — not 
as  much ! 

"Oh,  this  glorious  country  of  high  clouds  and  far 
horizons ! — and  alas !  for  the  Streets  of  Ascalon  where 
such  as  I  once  was  go  to  and  fro — '  clad  delicately  in 
scarlet  and  ornaments  of  gold.' 

"  *  Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  publish  it  not  in  the  Streets 
of  Ascalon  ' — that  the  pavements  of  the  Philistines  have 
bruised  my  feet,  and  their  Five  Cities  weary  me,  and 
Philistia's  high  towers  are  become  a  burden  to  my  soul. 
For  their  gods  are  too  many  and  too  strange  for  me. 
So  I  am  decided  to  remain  here — ere  '  they  that  look 
out  of  their  windows  be  darkened  '  and  4  the  doors  be 
shut  in  the  Streets  ' — '  and  all  the  daughters  of  music 
shall  be  brought  low.' 

"  My  poor  comrade !  Must  you  remain  a  prisoner 
in  the  Streets  of  Ascalon?  Yet,  through  your  soul  I 
know  as  free  and  fresh  a  breeze  is  blowing  as  stirs  the 
curtains  at  my  open  window! —  You  wonderful  man 
to  evoke  in  imagery — to  visualise  and  conceive  all  that 

382 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

had  to  be  concrete  to  cure  me  soul  and  body  of  my 
hurts ! 

"  I  have  been  reading  Karl  Westguard's  new  novel. 
Rix,  there  is  no  story  in  it,  nothing  at  all  that  I  can 
discover  except  a  very  earnest  warming  over  of  several 
modern  philosophers'  views  and  conclusions  concerning 
social  problems. 

"  I  hate  to  speak  unkindly  of  it ;  I  wanted  to  like  it 
because  I  like  Karl  Westguard.  But  it  isn't  fiction  and 
it  isn't  philosophy,  and  its  treatment  of  social  problems 
seems  to  follow  methods  already  obsolete. 

"Do  you  think  people  will  buy  it?  But  I  don't 
suppose  Karl  cares  since  he's  made  up  his  quarrel  with 
his  aunt. 

"  Poor  old  lady !  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  so  sub 
dued  and  forlorn?  Something  has  gone  wrong  with 
her.  She  told  me  that  she  had  had  a  most  dreadful 
scene  with  Langly  and  that  she  had  not  been  well  since. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  sounds  like  gossip,  but  I  wranted 
you  to  know.  Is  it  gossip  for  me  to  tell  you  so  much? 
I  tell  you  about  everything.  If  it's  gossip,  make  me 
stop. 

"  And  now — when  are  you  coming  to  see  me?  I  am 
still  at  Molly's,  you  know.  My  house  is  being  cleaned 
and  sweetened  and  papered  and  chintzed  and  made  liv 
able  and  lovable. 

"  When? — please. 

"  Your  friend  and  comrade, 

"  STRELSA." 


383 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALOX 

Quarren  telegraphed: 

"  I'll  come  the  moment  I  can.  Look  for  me  any 
day  this  week.  Letter  follows." 

Then  he  wrote  her  a  long  letter,  and  was  still  at 
it  when  Jessie  Vining  went  to  lunch  and  when  Dank- 
mere  got  onto  his  little  legs  and  strolled  out,  also. 
There  was  no  need  to  arouse  anybody's  suspicions  by 
hurrying,  so  Dankmere  waited  until  he  turned  the  cor 
ner  before  his  little  legs  began  to  trot.  Miss  Vining 
would  be  at  her  usual  table,  anyway — and  probably  as 
calmly  surprised  to  see  him  as  she  always  was.  For  the 
repeated  accident  of  their  encountering  at  the  same  res 
taurant  seemed  to  furnish  an  endless  source  of  aston 
ishment  to  them  both.  Apparently  Jessie  Vining  could 
never  understand  it,  and  to  him  it  appeared  to  be  a  co 
incidence  utterly  unfathomable. 

Meanwhile  Quarren  had  mailed  his  letter  to  Strelsa 
and  had  returned  to  his  workshop  in  the  basement  where 
several  canvases  awaited  his  attention. 

And  it  was  while  he  was  particularly  busy  that  the 
front  door-bell  rang  and  he  had  to  go  up  and  open. 

At  first  he  did  not  recognise  the  figure  standing  on 
the  steps  in  the  glare  of  the  sun  ;  then,  surprised,  he  held 
out  his  rather  grimy  hand  with  that  instinct  of  kindness 
toward  anything  that  seemed  to  need  it ;  and  the  thin 
pallid  hand  of  Ledwith  fell  limply  into  his,  contracting 
nervously  the  next  second. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Quarren,  pleasantly.  "  It's  very 
nice  of  you  to  think  of  me,  Ledwith." 

The  man's  hollow  eyes  avoided  his  and  roamed  rest 
lessly  about  the  gallery,  looking  at  picture  after  picture 
and  scarcely  seeing  them.  Inside  his  loose  summer 

384 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

clothing  his  thin,  nervous  frame  was  shifting  continu 
ally  even  while  he  stood  gazing  almost  vacantly  at  the 
walls  of  the  gallery. 

For  a  little  while  Quarren  endeavoured  to  interest 
him  in  the  canvases,  meaning  only  charity  to  a  man  who 
had  clearly  lost  his  grip  on  things ;  then,  afraid  of  be 
wildering  and  distressing  a  mind  so  nearly  extinct,  the 
young  fellow  remained  silent,  merely  accompanying 
Ledwith  as  he  moved  purposelessly  hither  and  thither  or 
halted  capriciously,  staring  into  space  and  twitching 
his  scarred  fingers. 

"  You're  busy,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Quarren,  frankly.  "  But  that 
needn't  make  any  difference  if  you'd  care  to  come  to  the 
basement  and  talk  to  me  while  I'm  at  work." 

Ledwith  made  no  reply  for  a  moment,  then,  abruptly : 

"  You're  always  kind  to  me,  Quarren." 

"  Get  over  that  idea,"  laughed  the  younger  man. 
"  Strange  as  it  may  seem  my  natural  inclination  is  to 
like  people.  Come  on  downstairs." 

In  the  littered  disorder  of  the  basement  he  found 
a  chair  for  his  visitor,  then,  without  further  excuse,  went 
smilingly  about  his  work,  explaining  it  as  it  progressed : 

"  Here's  an  old  picture  by  some  Italian  gink — im 
possible  to  tell  by  whom  it  was  painted,  but  not  difficult 
to  assign  it  to  a  certain  date  and  school.  .  .  .  See  what 
I'm  doing,  Ledwith? 

"  That's  what  we  call  6  rabbit  glue '  because  it's 
made  out  of  rabbits'  bones — or  that's  the  belief,  any 
way.  It's  gilder's  glue. 

"  Now  I  dissolve  this  much  of  it  in  hot  water — then 
I  glue  over  the  face  of  the  picture  three  layers  of  tissue- 
paper,  one  on  top  of  the  other — so ! 

385 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Now  here  is  a  new  chassis  or  stretcher  over  which  I 
have  stretched  a  new  linen  canvas.  Yesterday  I  sponged 
it  as  a  tailor  sponges  cloth;  and  now  it's  dry  and 
tight. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  reline  this  battered  old  Italian 
canvas.  It's  already  been  relined — perhaps  a  hundred 
jrears  ago.  So  first  I  take  off  the  old  relining  canvas 
— with  hot  water — this  way — cleaning  off  all  the  old 
paste  or  glue  from  it  with  alcohol.  .  .  . 

"  Now  here's  a  pot  of  paste  in  which  there  is  also 
glue  and  whitening ;  and  I  spread  it  over  the  back  of  this 
old  painting,  and  then,  very  gingerly,  glue  it  over  the 
new  linen  canvas  on  the  stretcher. 

"  Now  I  smooth  it  with  this  polished  wooden  block, 
-arid  then — just  watch  me  do  laundry  work!" 

He  picked  up  a  flat-iron  which  was  moderately 
warm,  reversed  the  relined  picture  on  a  marble  slab,  and 
began  to  iron  it  out  with  the  skill  and  precaution  of  an 
•expert  laundress  doing  frills. 

Ledwith  looked  on  with  a  sort  of  tremulously  fixed 
interest. 

"  In  three  days,"  said  Quarren,  laying  the  plastered 
picture  away,  "  I'll  soak  off  that  tissue  paper  with  warm 
water.  I  have  to  keep  it  on,  you  see,  so  that  no  flakes  of 
paint  shall  escape  from  the  painting  and  no  air  get  in 
to  blister  the  surface." 

He  picked  up  another  picture  and  displayed  it : 

"  Here's  a  picture  that  I  believe  to  be  a  study  by 
Greuze.  You  see  I  have  already  relined  it  and  it's 
fixed  on  its  new  canvas  and  stretcher  and  is  thor 
oughly  dry  and  ready  for  cleaning.  And  this  is  how 
I  begin." 

He  took  a  fine  sponge,  soaked  it  in  a  weak  solution 
386 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

of  alcohol,  and  very  gingerly  washed  the  blackened  and 
dirty  canvas.  Then  he  dried  it.  Then  he  gave  it  a  coat 
of  varnish. 

"  Looks  foolish  to  varnish  over  a  filthy  and  discol 
oured  picture  like  this,  doesn't  it,  Ledwith?  But  I'll  tell 
you  why.  When  that  varnish  dries  hard  I  shall  place 
my  hand  on  the  face  of  that  canvas  and  begin  very  cau 
tiously  but  steadily  to  rub  the  varnished  surface  with 
my  fingers  and  thumb.  And  do  you  know  what  will 
happen?  The  new  varnish  has  partly  united  with  the 
old  yellow  and  opaque  coating  of  varnish  and  dust,  and 
it  all  will  turn  to  a  fine  gray  powder  under  the  friction 
and  will  come  away  leaving  the  old  paint  underneath 
almost  as  fresh — very  often  quite  as  fresh  and  delicate 
as  when  the  picture  was  first  painted. 

"  Sometimes  I  have  to  use  three  or  more  coats  of 
new  varnish  before  I  can  remove  the  old  without  endan 
gering  the  delicate  glaze  underneath.  But  sooner  or 
later  I  get  it  clean. 

"  Then  I  dig  out  any  old  patches  or  restorations 
and  fill  in  with  a  composition  of  putty,  white  lead,  and 
a  drier,  and  smooth  this  with  a  cork.  Then  when  it  is 
sunned  for  an  hour  a  day  for  three  weeks  or  more — or 
less,  sometimes — I'm  ready  to  grind  my  pure  colours, 
mix  them,  set  my  palette,  and  do  as  honest  a  piece  of 
restoring  as  a  study  of  that  particular  master's  meth 
ods  permits.  And  that,  Ledwith,  is  only  a  little  part 
of  my  fascinating  profession. 

"  Sometimes  I  lift  the  entire  skin  of  paint  from  a 
canvas — picking  out  the  ancient  threads  from  the  rot 
ten  texture — and  transfer  it  to  a  new  canvas  or  panel. 
Sometimes  I  cross-saw  a  panel,  then  chisel  to  the  plaster 
that  lies  beneath  the  painting,  and  so  transfer  it  to  a 

387 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

new  and  sound  support.  Sometimes — "  he  laughed — 
"  but  there  are  a  hundred  delicate  and  interesting  sur 
gical  operations  which  I  attempt — a  thousand  exciting 
problems  to  solve — experiments  without  end  that  tempt 
me,  innovations  that  allure  me " 

He  laughed  again: 

"  You  ought  to  take  up  some  fad  and  make  a  busi 
ness  and  even  an  art  out  of  it !  " 

"  I?"  said  Ledwith,  dully. 

"  Why  not?    Man,  you're  young  yet,  if — if " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Quarren.  .  .  .  But  my  mind  is  too 
old — very  old  and  very  infirm — dying  in  me  of  age — 
the  age  that  comes  through  those  centuries  of  pain  that 
men  sometimes  live  through  in  a  few  months." 

Quarren  looked  at  him  hopelessly. 

"  Yet,"  he  said,  "  if  only  a  man  wills  it,  the  world 
is  new  again." 

"But— if  the  will  fails?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Ledwith." 

"  I  do."  He  drew  up  his  cuff  a  little  way,  his  dead 
eyes  resting  on  Quarren,  then,  in  silence,  he  drew  the 
sleeve  over  the  scars. 

"  Even  that  can  be  cured,"  said  the  younger  man. 

"  If  there  is  a  will  to  cure  it,  perhaps." 

"  Even  a  desire  is  enough." 

"  I  have  not  that  desire.     Why  cure  it  ?  " 

"  Because,  Ledwith,  you  haven't  gone  your  limit  yet. 
There's  more  of  life ;  and  you're  cheating  yourself  out 
of  it." 

"  Yes,  perhaps.  But  what  kind  of  life?  "  he  asked, 
staring  vaguely  out  into  the  sunshine  of  the  backyard. 
"  Life  in  hell  has  no  attractions  for  me." 

"  We  make  our  own  hells." 
388 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  didn't  make  mine.  They  dug  the  pit  and  I  fell 
into  it —  Hell's  own  pit,  Quarren ' 

"  You  are  wrong !  You  fell  into  a  pit  which  hurt  so 
much  that  you  supposed  it  was  the  pit  of  hell.  And, 
taking  it  for  granted,  you  burrowed  deeper  in  blind 
fury,  until  it  became  a  real  hell.  But  you  dug  it. 
There  is  no  hell  that  a  man  does  not  dig  for  himself !  " 

In  Ledwith's  dull  eyes  a  smouldering  spark  seemed 
to  flash,  go  out,  then  glimmer  palely. 

*'  Quarren,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  live  in  hell 
alone.  I'm  going  there,  shortly,  but  not  alone." 

Something  new  and  sinister  in  his  eyes  arrested  the 
other's  attention.  He  considered  the  man  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  then,  coolly: 

"  I  wouldn't,  Ledwith." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  isn't  worth  it — even  as  company  in  hell." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  him  live  on  ?  " 

66  Do  you  care  to  sink  to  his  level?  " 

"  Sink !     Can  I  sink  any  lower  than  I  am  ?  " 

Quarren  shrugged: 

"  Easily,  if  you  commit  murder." 

"  That  isn't  murder " 

But  Quarren  cut  him  short  continuing: 

"  Sink  lower,  you  ask?  What  have  you  done,  any 
way — except  to  commit  this  crime  against  yourself?  " 
— touching  him  on  the  wrist.  "  I'm  not  aware  of  any 
other  crime  committed  by  you,  Ledwith.  You're  clean 
as  you  stand — except  for  this  damnable  insult  and  in 
jury  you  offer  yourself!  Can't  you  reason?  A  bullet- 
stung  animal  sometimes  turns  and  bites  itself.  Is  that 
why  you  are  doing  it? — to  arouse  the  amusement  and 
contempt  of  your  hunter?  " 

389 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Quarren !  By  God  you  shall  not  say  that  to 
me " 

"Why  not?  Have  you  ever  considered  what  that 
man  must  think  of  you  to  see  you  turn  and  tear  at  the 
body  he  has  crippled?  " 

Ledwith's  sunken  eyes  blazed ;  he  straightened  him 
self,  took  one  menacing  step  forward ;  and  Quarren  laid 
a  light,'' steady  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said ;  "  has  it  never  occurred  to 
you  that  you  could  deal  him  no  deeper  blow  than  to  let 
him  see  a  man  stand  up  to  him,  face  to  face,  where 
a  creature  lay  writhing  before,  biting  into  its  own 
vitals?" 

He  smiled  into  the  fixed  eyes  of  the  almost  mindless 
man : 

"  If  you  say  the  word  I'll  stand  by  you,  Ledwith. 
If  all  you  want  to  do  is  to  punish  him,  murder  isn't  the 
way.  What  does  a  dead  man  care?  Cut  your  own 
throat  and  the  crime  might  haunt  him — and  might  not. 
But  kill! — Nonsense.  It's  all  over  then — except  for  the 
murderer." 

He  slid  his  hand  quietly  to  Ledwith's  arm,  pat 
ted  it. 

"  To  punish  him  you  need  a  doctor.  .  .  .  It's  only 
a  week  under  the  new  treatment.  You  know  that,  don't 
you?  After  that  a  few  months  to  get  back  nerve  and 
muscle  and  common  sense." 

"  And  then  ?  "  motioned  Ledwith  with  dry  lips. 

"  Then?  Oh,  anything  that  you  fancy.  It's  accord 
ing  to  a  man's  personal  taste.  You  can  take  him  by  the 
neck  and  beat  him  up  in  public  if  you  like — or  knock 
him  down  in  the  club  as  often  as  he  gets  up.  It  all 
depends,  Ledwith.  Some  of  us  maintain  self-respect 

390 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALOX 

without  violence ;  some  of  us  seem  to  require  it.    It's  up 
to  you." 

"  Yes." 

Quarren  said  carelessly :  "  If  I  were  you,  I  think  that 
I'd  face  the  world  as  soon  as  I  was  physically  and  men 
tally  well  enough — the  real  world  I  mean,  Ledwith — 
either  here  or  abroad,  just  as  I  felt  about  it. 

"  A  man  can  get  over  anything  except  the  stigma  of 
dishonesty.  And — personally  I  think  he  ought  to  have 
another  chance  even  after  that.  But  men's  ideas  differ. 
As  for  you,  what  you  become  and  show  that  you 
are,  will  go  ultimately  with  the  world.  Beat  him  up  if 
you  like ;  but,  personally,  I  never  even  wished  to  kick  a 
cur.  Some  men  kick  'em  to  their  satisfaction :  it's  a 
matter  of  taste  I  tell  you.  Besides— 

He  stopped  short ;  and  presently  Ledwith  looked  up. 

"Shall  I  say  it?" 

"  Yes.     You  are  kind  to  me,  always." 

"  Then — Ledwith,  I  don't  know  exactly  how  matters- 
stand.  I  can  only  try  to  put  myself  in  your  present 
place  and  imagine  what  I  ought  to  do,  having  ar 
rived  where  you  have  landed.  .  .  .  And,  do  you 
know,  if  I  were  you,  and  if  I  listened  to  my  better 
self,  I  don't  think  that  I'd  lay  a  finger  on  Langly 
Sprowl." 

"Why?" 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  woman  who  betrayed  me — 
and  who  is  now  betrayed  in  turn  by  the  man  who  be 
trayed  us  both." 

Ledwith  said  through  his  set  teeth :  "  Do  you  think 
I  care  for  her?  If  I  nearly  kill  him,  do  you  imagine  I 
care  what  the  public  will  say  about  her?  " 

"  You  are  generous  enough  to  care,  Ledwith." 
391 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  am  not !  "  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  I  don't  care  a 
damn !  " 

'  Then  why  do  you  care  whether  or  not  he  keeps  his 
word  to  her  and  shares  with  her  a  coat  of  social  white 
wash?  " 

"  I — she  is  only  a  little  fool — alone  to  face  the 
world  now — 

"  You're  quite  right,  Ledwith.  She  ought  to  have 
another  chance.  First  offenders  are  given  it  by  law. 
.  .  .  But  even  if  that  chance  lay  in  his  marrying  her, 
could  you  better  it  by  killing  him  if  he  won't  do  it?  Or 
by  battering  him  with  a  dog-whip? 

"  It  isn't  really  much  of  a  chance,  considering  it 
on  a  higher  level  than  the  social  view-point.  How 
much  real  rehabilitation  is  there  for  a  woman  who 
marries  such  a  man  ?  " 

He  smiled :  "  Because,"  he  continued,  "  my  view 
point  has  changed.  Things  that  once  seemed  important 
to  me  seem  so  no  longer.  To  live  cleanly  and  do  your 
best  in  the  real  world  is  an  aspiration  more  attractive 
to  me  than  social  absolution." 

Ledwith  remained  silent  for  a  long  while,  then  mut 
tered  something  indistinctly. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Quarren,  throwing  aside  his 
painter's  blouse  and  pulling  on  his  coat.  "  I'll  ring  up  a 
taxi  in  a  second!  .  .  .  You  mean  it,  Ledwith?  " 

The  man  looked  at  him  vacantly,  then  nodded. 

"  You're  on !  "  said  Quarren,  briskly  unhooking  the 
telephone. 

While  they  were  waiting  Ledwith  laid  a  shaking 
hand  on  Quarren's  sleeve  and  clung  to  it.  He  was 
trembling  like  a  leaf  when  they  entered  the  cab,  whim 
pering  when  they  left  it  in  front  of  a  wide  brown-stone 

.  392 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

building  composed  of  several  old-time  private  residences 
thrown  together. 

"  Stand  by  me,  Quarren,"  he  whispered  brokenly — 
"  you  won't  go  away,  will  you  ?  You  wouldn't  leave 
me  to  face  this  all — all  alone.  You've  been  kind  to  me. 
I — I  can  do  it — I  can  try  to  do  it  just  at  this  moment 
— if  you'll  stay  close  to  me — if  you'll  let  me  keep  hold 
of  you " 

"  Sure  thing !  "  said  Quarren  cheerfully.  "  I'll  stay 
as  long  as  you  like.  Don't  worry  about  your  clothes  ;  I'll 
send  for  plenty  of  linen  and  things  for  us  both.  You're 
all  right,  Ledwith — you've  got  the  nerve.  I " 

The  door  opened  to  his  ring ;  a  pleasant-faced  nurse 
in  white  ushered  them  in. 

"  Dr.  Lydon  will  see  you  in  a  moment,"  she  said, 
singling  out  Ledwith  at  a  glance. 

Later  that  afternoon  Quarren  telephoned  to  Dank- 
mere  that  he  would  not  return  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
gave  careful  instructions  which.  Dankmere  promised  to 
observe  to  the  letter. 

Then  he  sent  a  telegram  to  Strelsa: 

"  Unavoidably  detained  in  town.  Hope  to  be  up 
next  week.  Am  crazy  to  see  your  house  and  its  new 
owner.  R.  S.  Q." 

Dankmere  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone  hung  up 
the  receiver,  looked  carefully  around  him  to  be  certain 
that  Jessie  Vining  was  still  in  the  basement  where  she 
had  gone  to  straighten  up  one  or  two  things  for  Quar 
ren,  then,  with  a  perfectly  serious  face,  he  began  to 
dance,  softly. 

The  Earl  of  Dankmere  was  light-footed  and  graceful. 
393 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

when  paying  tribute  to  Terpsichore ;  walking-stick  bal 
anced  in  both  hands,  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
he  performed  in  absolute  silence  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
tune  running  through  his  head,  backward,  forward,  side 
ways,  airy  as  a  ballet-maiden,  then  off  he  went  into  the 
back  room  with  a  refined  kick  or  two  at  the  ceiling. 

And  there,  Jessie  Vining,  entering  the  front  room 
unexpectedly,  discovered  the  peer  executing  his  art  be 
fore  the  mirror,  apparently  enamoured  of  his  own  grace 
and  agility. 

When  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  mirror  he 
stopped  very  suddenly  and  came  back  to  find  her  at  her 
desk,  laughing. 

For  a  moment  he  remained  red  and  disconcerted,  but 
the  memory  of  the  fact  that  he  and  Miss  Vining  were  to 
occupy  the  galleries  all  alone — exclusive  of  intrusive  cus 
tomers — for  a  day  or  more,  assuaged  a  slight  chagrin. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  it  is  just  as  well  that  you 
should  know  me  as  I  am,  Miss  Vining — with  all  my 
faults  and  frivolous  imperfections,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Why?  "  asked  Miss  Vining. 

"  Why — what  ?  "  repeated  the  Earl,  confused. 

"  Why  should  I  know  all  your  imperfections  ?  " 

He  thought  hard  for  a  moment,  but  seemed  to  dis 
cover  no  valid  reason. 

"  You  ask  such  odd  questions,"  he  protested.  "  Now 
where  the  deuce  do  you  suppose  Quarren  has  gone?  I'll 
bet  he's  cut  the  traces  and  gone  up  to  see  those  people 
at  Witch-Hollow." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  making  a  few  erasures  in  her 
type-written  folio  and  rewriting  the  blank  spaces.  Then 
she  glanced  over  the  top  of  the  machine  at  his  lordship, 
who,  as  it  happened,  was  gazing  at  her  with  such  pecu- 

394 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

liar  intensity  that  it  took  him  an  appreciable  moment 
to  rouse  himself  and  take  his  eyes  elsewhere. 

"When  do  you  take  your  vacation?"  he  asked, 
carelessly. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  take  one." 

"Oh,  but  you  ought!  You'll  go  stale,  fade,  droop 
— er — and  all  that,  you  know !  " 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  feel  interes .  jd,"  she  said, 
smiling,  "  but  I  don't  expect  to  droop — er — and  all 
that,  you  know." 

He  laughed,  after  a  moment,  and  so  did  she — a 
sweet,  fearless,  little  laugh  most  complimentary  to  his 
lordship  if  he  only  knew  it — a  pretty,  frank  tribute  to 
what  had  become  a  friendship- -an  accord  born  of  con 
fidence  on  her  part,  and  of  several  other  things  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Dankmere. 

It  had  been  of  slow  growth  at  first — imperceptibly 
their  relations  had  grown  from  a  footing  of  distant  civ 
ility  to  a  companionship  almost  cordial — but  not  quite ; 
for  she  was  still  shy  with  him  at  times,  and  he  with  her; 
and  she  had  her  moods  of  unresponsive  reserve,  and  he 
was  moody,  too,  at  intervals. 

"  You  don't  like  me  to  make  fun  of  you,  do  you?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Don't  I  laugh  as  though  I  like  it?  " 

She  knitted  her  pretty  brows :  "  I  don't  quite  know. 
You  see  you're  a  British  peer — which  is  really  a  very 
wonderful  thing " 

"  Oh,  come,"  he  said :  "  it  really  is  rather  a  wonder 
ful  thing,  but  you  don't  believe  it." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  stand  in  awe  of  you.  When  you  come 
into  the  room  I  seem  to  hear  trumpets  sounding  in  the 

far  distance " 

395 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  My  boots  squeak— 

"  Nonsense !  I  do  hear  a  sort  of  a  fairy  fanfare 
playing  «  Hail  to  the  Belted  Earl ! '  " 

"  I  wear  braces " 

"  How  common  of  you  to  distort  my  meaning !  I 
don't  care,  you  may  do  as  you  like — dance  break-downs 
and  hammer  the  piano,  but  to  me  you  will  ever  remain 
a  British  peer — poor  but  noble " 

"  Wait  until  we  hear  from  that  Van  Dyck !  You 
can't  call  me  poor  then !  " 

She  laughed,  then,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  invol 
untarily  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Isn't  it  perfectly  wonderful,"  she  breathed  with  a 
happy,  satisfied  sigh. 

"  Are  you  really  very  happy  about  it,  Miss  Vin- 
ing?" 

"I?  Why  shouldn't  I  be!"  she  said  indignantly. 
"  I'm  so  proud  that  our  gallery  has  such  a  picture.  I'm 
so  proud  of  Mr.  Quarren  for  discovering  it — and — " 
she  laughed — "  I'm  proud  of  you  for  possessing  it.  You 
see  I  am  very  impartial;  I'm  proud  of  the  gallery, 
of  everybody  connected  with  it  including  myself. 
Shouldn't  I  be?" 

"  We  are  three  very  perfect  people,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  Do  you  know  that  we  really  are?  Mr.  Quarren  is 
wonderful,  and  you  are — agreeable,  and  as  for  me,  why 
when  I  rise  in  the  morning  and  look  into  the  glass  I  say 
to  myself,  '  Who  is  that  rather  clever-looking  girl  who 
smiles  at  me  every  morning  in  such  friendly  fashion  ?  ' 
And,  would  you  believe  it! — she  turns  out  to  be  Jessie 
Vining  every  time  !  " 

She  was  in  a  gay  mood ;  she  rattled  away  at  her  ma 
chine,  glancing  over  it  mischievously  at  him  from  time 

396 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

to  time.  He,  having  nothing  to  do  except  to  look  at 
her,  did  so  as  often  as  he  dared. 

And  so  they  kept  the  light  conversational  shuttle 
cock  flying  through  the  sunny  afternoon  until  it  drew 
near  to  tea-time.  Jessie  said  very  seriously: 

"  No  Englishman  can  exist  without  tea.  Tea  is  as 
essential  to  him  as  it  is  to  British  fiction.  A  micro 
scopic  examination  of  any  novel  made  by  a  British  sub 
ject  will  show  traces  of  tea-leaves  and  curates  although, 
as  the  text-books  on  chemistry  have  it,  otherwise  the 
substance  of  the  work  may  be  colourless,  tasteless, 
odourless,  and  gaseous  to  the  verge  of  the  fourth  di 
mension " 

"  If  you  don't  cease  making  game  of  things  British 
and  sacred,"  he  threatened,  "  I'll  try  to  stop  you  in 
a  way  that  will  astonish  you." 

"  What  will  you  try  to  do  ?  "  she  asked,  much  in 
terested. 

He  looked  her  steadily  in  the  eyes : 

"  I'll  try  to  turn  you  into  a  British  subject.  One 
can't  slam  one's  own  country." 

"  How  could  you  turn  me  into  such  an  object,  Lord 
Dankmere  ?  " 

"  There's  only  one  way." 

Innocent  for  a  few  moments  of  his  meaning  she 
smilingly  and  derisively  defied  him.  Then,  of  a  sudden, 
startled  into  immobility,  the  smile  froze  on  her  lips. 

At  the  swift  change  in  her  expression  his  own  fea 
tures  were  slowly  and  not  unbecomingly  suffused. 

Then,  incredulous,  and  a  little  nervous,  she  rose  to 
prepare  the  tea ;  and  he  sprang  up  to  bring  the  folding 
table. 

The  ceremony  passed  almost  in  silence;  neither  he 
397 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

nor  she  made  the  effort  to  return  to  the  lighter,  gayer 
vein.  When  they  spoke  at  all  it  was  on  some  matter 
connected  with  business ;  and  her  voice  seemed  to  him 
listless,  almost  tired. 

Which  was  natural  enough,  for  the  heat  had  been 
trying,  and,  in  spite  of  the  open  windows,  no  breath  of 
coolness  stirred  the  curtains. 

So  the  last  minutes  of  the  afternoon  passed  but  the 
sunshine  still  reddened  the  cornices  of  the  houses  across 
the  street  when  she  rose  to  put  away  the  tea-things. 

A  little  later  she  pinned  on  her  hat  and  moved  to 
ward  the  front  door  with  a  friendly  nod  to  him  in  silent 
adieu. 

"  Will  you  let  me  walk  home  with  you?  "  he  said. 

"  I — think — not,  this  evening." 

"  Were  you  going  anywhere?  " 

She  paused,  her  gloved  hand  on  the  knob,  and  he 
came  up  to  her,  slowly. 

"  Were  you?  "  he  repeated. 

"  No." 

"  Then — don't  you  care  to  let  me  walk  with  you?  " 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking;  her  head  was  a  trifle 
lowered. 

He  said :  "  Before  you  go  there  is  something  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  " — she  made  an  involuntary  move 
ment  and  the  door  opened  and  hung  ajar  letting  in  the 
lively  music  of  a  street-organ.  Then  he  leaned  over  and 
quietly  closed  the  door. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  taking  an  un 
warrantable  liberty  by  interfering  in  your  affairs  with 
out  consulting  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  surprised. 

"  It  happened  yesterday  about  this  hour,"  he  said. 
398 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"What  happened?" 

"  Do  you  remember  that  you  went  home  about  three 
o'clock  instead  of  waiting  until  this  hour  as  usual?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  this  is  what  occurred.  I  left  the  gallery  at 
this  same  hour.  Ahead  of  me  descending  the  steps 
was  a  young  girl  who  had  just  delivered  a  business  letter 
to  Mr.  Quarren.  As  she  set  foot  on  the  pavement  a 
footman  attached  to  an  automobile  drawn  up  across  the 
street  touched  his  cap  to  her  and  said :  '  Beg  pardon, 
Miss  Vining,  I  am  Mr.  Sprowl' s  man.  Mr.  Sprowl  would 
like  to  see  you  at  the  Cafe  Cammargue.  The  car  is 
waiting.'  ' 

Miss  Vining's  colour  faded ;  she  stared  at  Dankmere 
with  widening  eyes,  and  he  dropped  his  hands  into  his 
coat-pockets  and  returned  her  gaze. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Neither  did  the  young  girl  addressed  by  the  foot 
man.  Neither  did  I.  But  I  was  interested.  So  I  said 
to  the  footman :  c  Bring  around  your  car.  I  shall  have 
to  explain  about  Miss  Vining  to  Mr.  Sprowl.'  ' 

"  What !  "  she  said  breathlessly. 

"  That's  where  I  interfered,  Miss  Vining.  And 
the  footman  looked  doubtful,  too,  but  he  signalled  the 
chauffeur.  .  .  .  And  so  I  went  to  the  Cafe  Cam 
margue * " 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  her  white  and  distressed 
face,  then  continued  coolly: 

"  Sprowl  seemed  surprised  to  see  me.  He  was  wait 
ing  in  a  private  room.  .  .  .  He's  looking  rather  badly 
these  days.  .  .  .  We  talked  a  few  minutes " 

Pale,  angry,  every  sense  of  modesty  and  reserve  out 
raged,  the  girl  faced  him,  small  head  erect: 

399 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  You  went  there  to — to  discuss  me  with  that  man !  " 

He  was  silent.  She  turned  suddenly  and  tried  to 
open  the  door,  but  he  held  it  closed. 

"  I  did  it  because  I  cared  for  you  enough  to  do  it," 
he  said.  "  Don't  you  understand?  Don't  you  suppose 
I  know  that  kind  of  man  ?  " 

"  It — it  was  not  your  business — "  she  faltered, 
twisting  blindly  at  the  door-knob.  "  Let  me  go — 
please 

"  I  made  it  my  business.  .  .  .  And  that  man  under 
stood  that  I  was  making  it  my  business.  And  he  won't 
attempt  to  annoy  you  again.  .  .  .  Can  you  forgive 
me?" 

She  turned  on  him  excitedly,  her  eyes  flashing  with 
tears,  but  the  impetuous  words  of  protest  died  on  her 
lips  as  her  eyes  encountered  his. 

"  It  was  because  I  love  you,"  he  said.  And,  as  he 
spoke,  there  was  about  the  man  a  quiet  dignity  and  dis 
tinction  that  silenced  her — something  of  which  she  may 
have  had  vague  glimpses  at  wide  intervals  in  their  ac 
quaintances — something  which  at  times  she  suspected 
might  lie  latent  in  unknown  corners  of  his  character. 
Now  it  suddenly  confronted  her;  and  she  recognised  it 
and  stood  before  him  without  a  word  to  say. 

It  mended  matters  a  little  when  he  smiled,  and  the 
familiar  friend  reappeared  beside  her;  but  she  still  felt 
strange  and  shy ;  and  wondering,  half  fearfully,  she  let 
him  lift  her  gloved  hands  and  stand,  holding  them,  look 
ing  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  know  what  I  am,"  he  said.  "  I  have  nothing 
to  say  about  myself.  But  I  love  you  very  dearly.  .  .  . 
I  loved  before,  once,  and  married.  And  she  died.  .  .  . 
After  that  I  didn't  behave  very  well — until  I  knew  you. 

400 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

...  It  is  really  in  me  to  be  a  decent  husband — if  you 
can  care  for  me.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  think  we're  likely  to 
starve " 

"  I — it  isn't  that,"  she  said,  flushing  scarlet. 

"What?" 

"  What  you  have.  ...  I  could  only  care  for — 
what  you  are." 

"Can  you  do  that?" 

But  her  calm  .had  vanished,  and,  head  bent  and 
averted,  she  was  attempting  to  withdraw  her  hands — and 
might  have  freed  herself  entirely  if  it  had  not  been  for 
his  arm  around  her. 

This  new  and  disconcerting  phase  of  the  case 
brought  her  so  suddenly  face  to  face  with  him  that  it 
frightened  her ;  and  he  let  her  go,  and  followed  her  back 
to  the  empty  gallery  where  she  sank  down  at  her  desk, 
resting  her  arms  on  the  covered  type-machine,  and 
buried  her  quivering  face  in  them. 

It  was  excusable.  Such  things  don't  usually  happen 
to  typewriters  and  stenographers  although  they  have 
happened  to  barmaids. 

WThen  he  had  been  talking  eloquently  and  otherwise 
for  a  long  time  Jessie  Vining  lifted  her  pale,  tear-stained 
face  from  her  arms ;  and  his  lordship  dropped  rather 
gracefully  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  she  looked  down 
at  him  very  solemnly  and  wistfully. 

It  was  shockingly  late  when  they  closed  the  gallery 
that  evening.  And  their  mode  of  homeward  progress 
was  stranger  still,  for  instead  of  a  tram  or  of  the  taxi 
which  Lord  Dankmere  occasionally  prevailed  upon  her 
to  accept,  they  drifted  homeward  on  a  pink  cloud 
through  the  light-shot  streets  of  Ascalon. 

401 


CHAPTER    XVI 

To  the  solitary  and  replete  pike,  tying  motionless 
in  shadow,  no  still-bait  within  reach  is  interesting. 
But  the  slightest,  movement  in  his  vicinity  of  anything 
helpless  instantly  rivets  his  attention ;  any  creature 
apparently  in  distress  arouses  him  to  direct  and  light 
ning  action  whether  he  be  gorged  or  not — -even,  per 
haps,  while  he  is  still  gashed  raw  with  the  punishment 
for  his  last  attempt. 

So  it  was  with  Langly  Sprowl.  He  had  come  into 
town,  sullen,  restless,  still  fretting  with  checked  desire. 
Within  him  a  dull  rage  burned;  he  was  ready  to  injure, 
ready  for  anything  to  distract  his  mind  which,  however, 
had  not  given  up  for  a  moment  the  dogged  determina 
tion  to  recover  the  ground  he  had  lost  with  perhaps  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  he  had  ever  really  cared  for. 

Yet,  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  does  not  know 
what  real  love  is.  That  understanding  had  not  been 
born  in  him,  and  he  had  not  acquired  it.  He  was  totally 
incapable  of  anything  except  that  fierce  passion  which 
is  aroused  by  obstacles  when  in  pursuit  of  whatever 
evinces  a  desire  to  escape. 

It  was  that  way  with  him  when,  by  accident,  he  saw 
and  recognised  Jessie  Vining  one  evening  leaving  the 
Dankmere  Galleries.  And  Langly  Sprowl  never  denied 
himself  anything  that  seemed  incapable  of  self-defence. 

He  stopped  his  car  and  got  out  and  spoke  to  her, 
4-02 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALOX 

very  civilly,  and  with  a  sort  of  kindly  frankness  which 
he  sometimes  used  with  convincing  effect.  She  refused 
the  proffered  car  to  take  her  to  her  destination,  but 
could  not  very  well  avoid  his  escort ;  and  their  encounter 
ended  by  her  accepting  his  explanations  and  his  ex 
tended  hand,  perplexed,  unwilling  to  misjudge  him,  but 
thankful  when  he  departed. 

After  that  he  continued  to  meet  her  occasionally  and 
walk  home  with  her. 

Then  he  sent  his  footman  and  the  car  for  her ;  and 
drew  Lord  Dankmere  out  of  the  grab-bag,  to  his 
infinite  annoyance.  Worse,  Dankmere  had  struck 
him  with  an  impact  so  terrific  that  it  had  knocked  him 
senseless  across  the  table  in  a  private  dining-room  of  the 
Cafe  Cammargue,  where  he  presently  woke  up  with  a 
most  amazing  eye  to  find  the  terrified  proprietor  and 
staff  playing  Samaritan. 

In  various  papers  annoying  paragraphs  concerning 
him  had  begun  to  appear — hints  of  how  matters  stood 
between  him  and  Mary  Ledwith,  ugly  innuendo,  veiled 
rumours  of  the  breach  between  him  and  his  aunt  con 
sequent  upon  his  untenable  position  vis-a-vis  Mrs.  Led 
with. 

Until  Dankmere  had  inconvenienced  his  features  he 
had  walked  downtown  to  his  office  every  day,  lank,  long- 
legged,  sleek  head  held  erect,  hatchet  face  pointed 
straight  in  front  of  him,  his  restless  eyes  encountering 
everybody's  but  seeing  nobody  unless  directly  saluted. 

Now,  his  right  eye  rivalling  a  thunder-cloud  in  tints, 
he  drove  one  of  his  racing  cars  as  fast  as  he  dared, 
swinging  through  Westchester  or  scurrying  about  Long 
Island.  Occasionally  he  went  aboard  the  Yulan,  but  a 
burning  restlessness  kept  him  moving;  and  at  last  he 

403 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

returned  to  South  Linden  in  a  cold  but  deadly  rage, 
determined  to  win  back  the  chances  which  he  supposed 
he  had  thrown  away  in  the  very  moment  of  victory. 

Strelsa  Leeds  had  now  taken  up  her  abode  in  her 
quaint  little  house;  he  learned  that  immediately;  and 
that  evening  he  went  over  and  came  upon  her  moving 
about  in  the  dusky  garden,  so  intent  on  inspecting  her 
flowers  that  he  was  within  a  pace  of  her  before  she 
turned  her  head  and  saw  him. 

"  Strelsa,"  he  said,  "  can  we  not  be  friends  again? 
I  ask  no  more  than  that." 

Too  surprised  and  annoyed  to  reply  she  merely 
gazed  at  him.  And,  because,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  perhaps,  he  really  felt  every  word  he  uttered,  he 
spoke  now  with  a  certain  simplicity  and  self-control  that 
sounded  unusual  to  her  ears — so  noticeably  unlike  what 
she  knew  of  him  that  it  commanded  her  unwilling  atten 
tion. 

For  his  unpardonable  brutality  and  violence  he 
asked  forgiveness,  promising  to  serve  her  faithfully  and 
in  friendship  for  the  privilege  of  attempting  to  win  back 
her  respect  and  regard.  He  asked  only  that. 

He  said  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  with  his 
life  without  the  hope  of  recovering  her  respect  and  es 
teem  ;  he  asked  for  a  beggar's  chance,  begged  for  it  with 
a  candour  and  naivete  almost  boyish — so  directly  to  the 
point  tended  every  instinct  in  him  to  recover  through 
caution  and  patience  what  he  had  lost  through  care 
lessness  and  a  violence  which  still  astonished  him. 

The  Bermuda  lilies  were  in  bloom  and  Strelsa  stood 
near  them,  listening  to  him,  touching  the  tall  stalks 
absently  at  intervals.  And  while  she  listened  she  became 
more  conscious  still  of  the  great  change  in  herself — of 

404 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

her  altered  attitude  toward  so  much  in  life  that  once 
had  seemed  to  her  important.  After  he  had  ceased  she 
still  stood  pensively  among  the  lilies,  gray  eyes  brood 
ing.  At  length,  looking  up,  she  said  very  quietly : 

"  Why  do  you  care  for  my  friendship,  Langly  ?  I 
am  not  the  kind  of  woman  you  think  me — not  even  the 
kind  I  once  thought  myself.  To  me  friendship  is  no 
light  thing  either  to  ask  for  or  to  give.  It  means  more 
to  me  than  it  once  did ;  and  I  give  it  very  seldom,  and 
sparingly,  and  to  very,  very  few.  But  toward  every 
body  I  am  gently  disposed — because,  I  am  much  hap 
pier  than  I  ever  have  been  in  all  my  life.  ...  Is  not  my 
good  will  sufficient  for  any  possible  relation  between  you 
and  me? " 

"  Then  you  are  no  longer  angry  with  me?  " 

"  No — no  longer  angry." 

"  Can  we  be  friends  again  ?  Can  you  really  forgive 
me,  Strelsa?" 

"  Why — yes,  I  could  do  that.  .  .  .  But,  Langly, 
what  have  you  and  I  in  common  as  a  basis  for  friendship  ? 
What  have  we  ever  had  in  common?  Except  when  we 
encounter  each  other  by  hazard,  why  should  we  ever 
meet  at  all?" 

"  You  have  not  pardoned  me,  Strelsa,"  he  said  pa 
tiently. 

"  Does  that  really  make  any  difference  to  you  ?  It 
doesn't  to  me.  It  is  only  because  I  never  think  of  you 
that  it  would  be  an  effort  to  forgive  you.  I'll  make  that 
effort  if  you  wish,  but  really,  Langly,  I  never  think 
about  you  at  all." 

"  If  that  is  true,  let  me  be  with  you  sometimes,  Strel 
sa,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why?" 

405 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Because  I  am  wretchedly  unhappy.  And  I  care 
for  you — more  than  you  realise." 

She  said  seriously :  "  You  have  no  right  to  speak  that 
way  to  me,  Langly." 

"  Could  you  ever  again  give  me  the  right  to  say  I 
love  you  ?  " 

A  quick  flush  of  displeasure  touched  her  cheeks ;  he 
saw  it  in  the  dusk  of  the  garden,  and  mistook  it  utterly : 

"  Strelsa — listen  to  me,  dear !  I  have  not  slept  since 
our  quarrel.  I  must  have  been  stark  mad  to  say  and  do 
what  I  did.  .  .  .  Don't  leave  me !  Don't  go !  I  beg 
you  to  listen  a  moment " 

She  had  started  to  move  away  from  him  and  his  first 
forward  step  broke  a  blossom  from  its  stalk  where  it 
hung  white  in  the  dusk. 

"  I  ask  you  to  go,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 
"  There  are  people  here — on  the  veranda — 

Every  sense  within  him  told  him  to  go,  pretending 
resignation.  That  was  his  policy.  He  had  come  here 
for  martyrdom,  cuirassed  in  patience.  Every  atom  of 
common  sense  warned  him  to  go. 

But  also  every  physical  sense  in  him  was  now  fully 
aroused — the  silvery  star-dusk,  the  scent  of  lilies,  a 
slender  woman  within  arm's  reach — this  woman  who  had 
once  been  so  nearly  his — who  was  still  rightfulljr  his ! — 
these  circumstances  were  arousing  him  once  more  to  a 
temerity  which  his  better  senses  warned  him  to  subdue. 
Yet  if  he  could  only  get  nearer  to  her — if  he  could  once 
get  her  into  his  arms — overwhelm  her  with  the  storm  of 
passion  rising  so  swiftly  within  him,  almost  choking  him 
— so  that  his  voice  and  limbs  already  trembled  in  its  furi 
ous  surge — 

"  Strelsa — I  love  you  !  For  God's  sake  show  me  some 
406 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

mercy !  "  he  stammered.  "  I  come  to  you  half  crazed  by 
the  solitude  to  which  your  anger  has  consigned  me. 
I  cannot  endure  it — I  need  you — I  want  you — I  ask  for 
your  compassion 

"  Hush !  "  she  pleaded,  hastily  retreating  before  him 
through  the  snowy  banks  of  rockets — "  I  have  asked  you 
not  to  speak  to  me  that  way !  I  ask  you  to  go — to  go 
now  ! — because " 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me !  Will  you  wait  a  moment ! 
I  am  only  trying  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  dear — 

He  almost  caught  her,  but  she  sprang  aside,  fright 
ened,  still  retreating  before  him. 

"  I  cannot  go  until  you  listen  to  me ! — "  he  said 
thickly,  trampling  through  the  flowers  to  intercept  her. 
"  You've  got  to  listen! — do  you  hear?  " 

She  had  almost  reached  the  terrace ;  the  shadowy 
veranda  opened  widely  beyond. 

"  There  are  people  here!  Don't  you  understand?  " 
she  said  once  more  in  a  choking  voice ;  but  he  only  ad 
vanced,  and  she  fell  back  before  him  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  porch  lattice. 

"  Now  listen  to  me !  "  he  said  between  his  teeth.  "  I 
love  you  and  I'll  never  give  you  up " 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  him,  hands  tightly  clenched : 

"  Be  silent !  "  she  whispered  fiercely.  "  I  tell  you 
what  you  say  is  indecent,  revolting!  If  there  were  a 
man  here  he'd  kill  you!  Do  you  understand?  " 

At  the  same  instant  his  eyes  became  fixed  on  a  figure 
in  white  which  took  shadowy  shape  on  the  dark  veranda, 
rising  and  coming  slowly  forward. 

Ghostlike  as  it  was  he  knew  it  instantly,  stood  rooted 
in  his  tracks  while  Strelsa  stole  away  from  him  through 
the  star-lit  gloom,  farther,  farther,  slipping  .forever 

407 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

from  him  now — he  knew  that  as  he  stood  there  staring 
like  a  damned  man  upon  that  other  dim  shape  in  the 
darkness  beyond. 

It  was  his  first  glimpse  of  her  since  her  return  from 
Reno.  And  now,  unbidden,  memories  half  strangled 
were  already  in  full  resurrection,  gasping  in  his  ears  of 
things  that  had  been — of  forgotten  passion,  of  pleasure 
promised ;  and,  because  never  tasted,  it  had  been  the 
true  and  only  pleasure  for  such  a  man  as  he — the  pleas 
ure  of  anticipation.  But  the  world  had  never,  would 
never  believe  that.  Only  he,  and  the  phantom  there  in 
the  dusk  before  him,  knew  it  to  be  true. 

Slightly  reeling  he  turned  away  in  the  darkness.  In 
his  haunted  ears  sounded  a  young  wife's  voice,  promis 
ing,  caressing ;  through  and  through  him  shot  a  thrill  of 
the  old  excitement,  the  old  desire,  urging  him  again 
toward  belated  consummation. 

And  again  the  old  impatience  seized  him,  the  old 
ruthlessness,  the  old  anger  at  finding  her  weak  in  every 
way  except  one,  the  old  contempt  which  had  turned  to 
sullen  amazement  when  she  wrote  him  that  she  had  gone 
to  Reno  and  that  they  must  wait  for  their  happiness 
until  the  courts  decreed  it  legal. 

Now  as  he  swung  along  under  the  high  stars  he  was 
thinking  of  these  things.  And  he  felt  that  he  had  not 
tried  her  enough,  had  not  really  exerted  himself — that 
women  who  are  fools  require  closer  watching  than  clever 
ones ;  that  he  could  have  overcome  her  scruples  with  any 
real  effort  and  saved  her  from  giving  him  the  slip  and 
sowing  a  wind  in  Reno  which  already  had  become  enough 
of  a  breeze  to  bother  him. 

With  her,  for  a  while,  he  might  be  able  to  distract 
his  mind  from  this  recent  obsession  tormenting  him.  To 

408 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

overcome  her  would  interest  him;  and  he  had  no  doubt 
it  could  be  done — for  she  was  a  little  fool — silly  enough 
to  slap  the  world  in  the  face  and  brave  public  opinion 
at  Reno.  No — it  was  not  necessary  to  marry  such  a 
woman.  She  might  think  so,  but  it  wasn't. 

He  had  behaved  unwisely,  too.  Why  should  he  not 
have  gone  to  see  her  when  she  returned?  By  doing  so, 
and  acting  cleverly,  he  could  have  avoided  trouble  with 
his  aunt,  and  also  these  annoying  newspaper  para 
graphs.  Also  he  could  have  avoided  the  scene  with  Led- 
with — and  the  aborted  reconciliation  just  now  with 
Strelsa,  where  he  had  stood  staring  at  the  apparition  of 
Mary  Ledwith  as  lost  souls  stand  transfixed  before  the 
pallid  shades  of  those  whom  they  have  destroyed. 

At  his  lodge-gate  a  half-cowering  dog  fawned  on 
him  and  he  kicked  it  aside.  The  bruised  creature  fled, 
and  Sprowl  turned  in  at  his  gates  and  walked  slowly 
up  the  cypress-bordered  drive. 

He  thought  it  all  out  that  night,  studied  it  carefully. 
What  he  needed  was  distraction  from  the  present  tor 
ment.  Mary  Ledwith  could  give  that  to  him.  What  a 
fool  she  had  been  ever  to  imagine  that  she  could  be  any 
thing  more  than  his  temporary  mistress. 

"  The  damned  little  idiot,"  he  mused — "  cutting 
away  to  Reno  before  I  knew  what  she  was  up  to — and 
involving  us  both  in  all  that  talk !  What  did  she  flatter 
herself  I  wanted,  anyway.  .  .  But  I  ought  to  have 
called  on  her  at  once ;  now  it's  going  to  be  difficult." 

Yet  he  sullenly  welcomed  the  difficulty — hoped  that 
she'd  hold  out.  That  was  what  he  wanted,  the  excite 
ment  of  it  to  take  his  mind  from  Strelsa — keep  him  in 
terested  and  employed  until  the  moment  arrived  once 

409 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

more  when  he  might  venture  to  see  her  again.  He  was, 
by  habit,  a  patient  man.  Only  in  the  case  of  Strelsa 
Leeds  had  passion  ever  prematurely  betrayed  him ;  and, 
pacing  his  porch  there  in  the  darkness,  he  set  his  teeth 
and  wondered  at  himself  and  cursed  himself,  unable  to 
reconcile  what  he  knew  of  himself  with  what  he  had  done 
to  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  wished  to  marry  as  a 
last  resort. 

For  two  weeks  Sprowl  kept  to  himself.  Few  men 
understood  better  than  he  what  was  the  medicinal  value 
of  time.  Only  once  had  he  dared  ignore  it. 

So  one  evening,  late  in  August,  still  dressed  in  knick 
erbockers  and  heather-spats,  he  walked  from  his  lawn 
across  country  to  make  the  first  move  in  a  new  game 
with  Mary  Ledwith. 

Interested,  confident,  already  amused,  and  in  far  bet 
ter  spirits  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  day,  he  strode 
out  across  the  fields,  swinging  his  walking-stick,  his  rest 
less  eyes  seeing  everything  and  looking  directly  at 
nothing. 

Which  was  a  mistake  on  his  part  for  once,  because, 
crossing  a  pasture  corner,  his  own  bull,  advancing 
silently  from  a  clump  of  willows,  nearly  caught  him ; 
but  Sprowl  went  over  the  fence  and,  turning,  brought 
down  his  heavy  stick  across  the  brute's  ringed  nose ;  and 
the  animal  bellowed  at  him  and  tore  up  the  sod  and 
followed  along  inside  the  fence  thundering  his  baffled 
furv  as  long  as  Sprowl  remained  in  sight. 

It  was  not  all  bad  disposition.  Sprowl,  who  cared 
nothing  for  animals,  hated  the  bull,  and,  when  nothing 
more  attractive  offered,  was  accustomed  to  come  to  the 
fence,  irritate  the  animal,  lure  him  within  range,  and 

410 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

strike  him.  He  had  done  it  many  times ;  and,  some  day, 
he  meant  to  go  into  the  pasture  with  a  rifle,  stand  the 
animal's  charge,  and  shoot  him. 

It  was  a  calm,  primrose-tinted  sunset  where  trees 
and  hills  and  a  distant  spire  loomed  golden-black  against 
the  yellow  west.  No  trees  had  yet  turned,  although,  here 
and  there  on  wooded  hills,  single  discoloured  branches 
broke  the  green  monotony. 

No  buckwheat  had  yet  been  cut,  but  above  the  ruddy 
fields  of  stalks  the  .snow  of  the  blossoms  had  become  tar 
nished  in  promise  of  maturity — the  first  premonition  of 
autumn  except  for  a  few  harvest  apples  yellow  amid 
green  leaves. 

He  had  started  without  any  definite  plan,  a  con 
fident  but  patient  opportunist ;  and  as  he  approached 
the  Ledwith  property  and  finally  sighted  the  chimneys 
of  the  house  above  the  trees,  something — some  errant 
thought  seemed  to  amuse  him,  for  he  smiled  slightly. 
His  smile  was  as  rare  as  his  laughter — and  as  brief ; 
and  there  remained  no  trace  of  it  as  he  swung  up  the 
last  hill  and  stood  there  gazing  ahead. 

The  sun  had  set.  A  delicate  purple  haze  already 
dimmed  distances ;  and  the  twilight  which  falls  more 
swiftly  as  summer  deepens  into  autumn  was  already 
stealing  into  every  hollow  and  ravine,  darkening  the 
alders  where  the  stream  stole  swampwards.  A  few  lag 
gard  crows  were  still  winging  toward  the  woods ;  a  few 
flocks  of  blackbirds  passed  overhead  almost  unseen 
against  the  sky.  Somewhere  some  gardener  had  been 
burning  leaves  and  refuse,  and  the  odour  made  the  dusk 
more  autumn-like. 

As  he  crossed  the  line  separating  his  land  from  the 
Ledwith  estate  he  nodded  to  the  daughter  of  one  of  his 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

own  gardeners  who  was  passing  with  a  collie ;  and  then 
he  turned  to  look  again  at  the  child  whose  slender  grace 
and  freshness  interested  him. 

"  Look  out  for  that  bull,  Europa,"  he  said,  staring 
after  her  as  she  walked  on. 

She  looked  back  at  him,  laughingly,  and  thanked 
him  and  went  on  quite  happily,  the  collie  plodding  at 
her  heels.  Recently  Sprowl  had  been  very  pleasant 
to  her. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight  he  started  forward, 
climbed  the  fence  into  the  road,  followed  it  to  the  drive 
way,  and  followed  that  among  the  elms  and  Norway  firs 
to  the  porch. 

It  was  so  dark  here  among  the  trees  that  only  the 
lighted  transom  guided  him  up  the  steps. 

To  the  maid  who  came  to  the  door  he  said  coolly: 
"  Say  to  Mrs.  Ledwith  that  Mr.  Sprowl  wishes  to  see 
her  for  a  moment  on  a  very  important  matter." 

"  Mrs.  Ledwith  is  not  at  home,  sir." 

"What?" 

"  Mrs.  Ledwith  is  not  at  home." 

"Where  is  she;  out?" 

"  Y-yes,  sir." 

"Where?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir " 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Mrs.  Ledwith  is  at  home  but  has 
given  you  instructions  concerning  me.  Isn't  that  so  ?  " 

The  maid,  crimson  and  embarrassed,  made  no  answer, 
and  he  walked  past  her  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Light  up  here,"  he  said. 

"  Please,  sir " 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,  my  good  girl.  Here — where's 
that  button? — there! — "  as  the  pretty  room  sprang 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

into  light — "  Now  never  mind  your  instructions  but 
go  and  say  to  Mrs.  Ledwith  that  I  must  see  her." 

He  calmly  unfolded  a  flat  packet  of  fresh  bank-notes, 
selected  one,  changed  it  on  reflection  for  another  of 
higher  denomination,  and  handed  it  to  her.  The  girl 
hesitated,  still  irresolute  until  he  lifted  his  narrow  head 
and  stared  at  her.  Then  she  went  away  hurriedly. 

When  she  returned  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ledwith  was 
not  at  home  to  Mr.  Sprowl  he  shrugged  and  bade  her 
inform  her  mistress  that  their  meeting  was  not  a  matter 
of  choice  but  of  necessity,  and  that  he  would  remain 
where  he  was  until  she  received  him. 

Again  the  maid  went  away,  evidently  frightened,  and 
Sprowl  lighted  a  cigarette  and  began  to  saunter  about. 
When  he  had  examined  everything  in  the  room  he 
strolled  into  the  farther  room.  It  was  unlighted  and 
suited  him  to  sit  in ;  and  he  installed  himself  in  a  com 
fortable  chair  and,  throwing  his  cigarette  into  the  fire 
place,  lighted  a  cigar. 

This  was  a  game  he  understood — a  waiting  game. 
The  game  was  traditional  with  his  forefathers;  every 
one  of  them  had  played  it;  their  endless  patience  had 
made  a  fortune  to  which  each  in  turn  had  added  before 
he  died.  Patience  and  courage — courage  of  the  sort 
known  as  personal  bravery — had  distinguished  all  his 
race.  He  himself  had  inherited  patience,  and  had  used 
it  wisely  except  in  that  one  inexplicable  case! — and 
personal  courage  in  him  had  never  been  lacking,  nor 
had  what  often  accompanies  it,  coolness,  obstinacy,  and 
effrontery. 

He  had  decided  to  wait  until  his  cigar  had  been  lei 
surely  finished.  Then,  other  measures — perhaps  walk 
ing  upstairs,  unannounced,  perhaps  an  unresentful  with- 

413 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

drawal,  a  note  by  messenger,  and  another  attempt  to 
see  her  to-morrow — he  did  not  yet  know — had  arrived 
at  no  conclusion — but  would  make  up  his  mind  when 
he  finished  his  cigar  and  then  do  whatever  caution 
dictated. 

Once  a  servant  came  to  the  door  to  look  around  for 
him,  and  when  she  discovered  him  in  the  half-light  of 
the  music-room  she  departed  hastily  for  regions  above. 
This  amused  Sprowl. 

As  he  lounged  there,  thoroughly  comfortable,  he 
could  hear  an  occasional  stir  in  distant  regions  of  the 
house,  servants  moving  perhaps,  a  door  opened  or  closed, 
faint  creaks  from  the  stairs.  Once  the  distant  sounds 
indicated  that  somebody  was  using  a  telephone ;  once,  as 
he  ncared  the  end  of  his  cigar,  a  gray  cat  stole  in,  caught 
sight  of  him,  halted,  her  startled  eyes  fixed  on  him,  then 
turned  and  scuttled  out  into  the  hall. 

Finally  he  rose,  flicked  his  cigar  ashes  into  the  fire 
place,  stretched  his  powerful  frame,  yawned,  and 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

And  at  the  same  instant  somebody  entered  the  front 
door  with  a  latch-key. 

Sprowl  stood  perfectly  still,  interested,  waiting :  and 
two  men,  bare-headed  and  in  evening  dress,  came  swiftly 
but  silently  into  the  drawing-room.  One  was  Quarren, 
the  other  Chester  Ledwith.  Quarren  took  hold  of  Led- 
with's  arm  and  tried  to  draw  him  out  of  the  room.  Then 
Ledwith  caught  sight  of  Sprowl  and  started  toward  him, 
but  Quarren  again  seized  his  companion  by  the  shoul 
der  and  dragged  him  back. 

"  I  tell  you  to  keep  quiet,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice — 
"  Keep  out  of  this  ! — go  out  of  the  house !  " 

"  I  can't,  Quarren  !     I " 

414 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALOX 

"  You  promised  not  to  come  in  until  that  man  had 
left " 

"  I  know  it.  I  meant  to — but,  good  God !  Quarren  ! 
I  can't  stand  there 

He  was  struggling  toward  Sprowl  and  Quarren  was 
trying  to  push  him  back  into  the  hall. 

"  You  said  that  you  had  given  up  any  idea  of  per 
sonal  vengeance !  "  he  panted.  "  Let  me  deal  with  him 
quietly — 

"  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying,"  retorted  Led- 
with,  straining  away  from  the  man  who  held  him,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Sprowl.  "  I  tell  you  I  can't  remain  quiet 
and  see  that  blackguard  in  this  house " 

"  But  he's  going  I  tell  you !  He's  going  without 
a  row — without  any  noise.  Can't  you  let  me  manage 
it- 
He  could  not  drag  Lcdwith  to  the  door,  so  he  forced 
him  into  a  chair  and  stood  guard,  glancing  back  across 
his  shoulder  at  Sprowl. 

"  You'd  better  go,"  he  said  in  a  low  but  perfectly 
distinct  voice. 

Sprowl,  still  holding  his  cigar,  sauntered  forward 
into  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  armed,"  he  said  contemptuously. 
"  If  you  threaten  me  I'll  take  away  your  guns  and  slap 
both  your  faces — ask  the  other  pup  how  it  feels, 
Quarren." 

Ledwith  struggled  to  rise  but  Quarren  had  him  fast. 

"  Get  out  of  here,  Sprowl,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have 
a  bad  time  of  it  if  he  gets  away  from  me." 

Sprowl  stared,  hands  in  his  pockets,  puffing  his 
cigar. 

"  I've  a  notion  to  kick  you  both  out,"  he  drawled. 
415 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  would  be  a  mistake,"  panted  Quarren.  "  Can't 
you  go  while  there's  time,  Sprowl !  I  tell  you  he'll  kill 
you  in  this  room  if  you  don't." 

"  I  won't — kill  him ! — Let  go  of  me,  Quarren," 
gasped  Ledwith.  "  I — I  won't  do  murder ;  I've  promised 
you  that — for  her  sake 

"  Let  him  loose,  Quarren,"  said  Sprowl. 

He  waited  for  a  full  minute,  watching  the  strug 
gling  men  in  silent  contempt.  Then  with  a  shrug  he 
went  out  into  the  hall,  leisurely  put  on  his  hat,  picked 
up  his  stick,  opened  the  door,  and  sauntered  out  into 
the  darkness. 

"  Now,"  breathed  Quarren  fiercely,  "  you  play  the 
man  or  I'm  through  with  you !  He's  gone  and  he  won't 
come  back — I'll  see  to  that !  And  it's  up  to  you  to  show 
what  you're  made  of !  " 

^  Ledwith,  freed,  stood  white  and  breathing  hard  for 
a  few  moments.  Then  a  dull  flush  suffused  his  thin 
face;  he  looked  down,  stood  with  hanging  head,  until 
Quarren  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  It's  up  to  you,  Ledwith,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  don't 
blame  you  for  losing  your  head  a  moment,  but  if  you 
mean  what  you  said,  I  should  say  that  this  is  your 
chance.  .  .  .  And  if  I  were  you  I'd  simply  go  upstairs 
and  speak  to  her.  .  .  .  She's  been  through  hell.  .  .  . 
She's  in  it  still.  But  you're  out ;  and  you  can  stay  out 
if  you  choose.  There's  no  need  to  wallow  if  you  don't 
want  to.  You're  not  in  very  good  shape  yet,  but  you're 
a  man.  And  now,  if  you  do  care  for  her,  I  really  believe 
it's  up  to  you.  .  .  .  Will  you  go  upstairs?" 

Ledwith  turned  and  went  out  into  the  familiar  hall. 
Then,  as  though  dazed,  resting  one  thin  hand  on  the 
rail,  he  mounted  the  stairway,  head  hanging,  feeling  his 

416 


'"Let  him  loose,  Quarren,'  said  Sprowl.' 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

way  blindly  back  toward  all  that  life  had  ever  held  for 
him,  but  which  he  had  been  too  weak  to  keep  or  even 
to  defend. 

Quarren  waited  for  a  while ;  Ledwith  did  not  return. 
After  a  few  minutes  an  excited  maid  came  down,  stared 
at  him,  then,  reassured,  opened  the  door  for  him  with 
a  smile.  And  he  went  out  into  the  starlight. 

He  had  been  walking  for  only  a  few  moments  when 
he  overtook  Sprowl  sauntering  down  a  lane ;  and  the 
latter  glanced  around  and,  recognising  him,  halted. 

"  Where's  the  other  hero?  "  he  asked. 

"  Probably  discussing  you  with  the  woman  he  is 
likely  to  remarry." 

Sprowl  shrugged: 

"  That's  what  that  kind  of  a  man  is  made  for — to- 
marry  what  others  don't  have  to  marry." 

"  You  lie,"  said  Quarren  quietly. 

Sprowl  stared  at  him :  then  the  long-pent  fury  over 
whelmed  his  common  sense  again,  and  again  it  was  in 
regard  to  the  woman  he  had  lost  by  his  violence. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  measuring  his  words,  "  that 
you're  the  same  kind  of  a  man,  too.  And  some  day,  if 
you're  good,  you  can  marry  what  I  don't  have  to 
marry " 

He  reeled  under  Quarren's  blow,  then  struck  at  him 
blindly  with  his  walking-stick,  leaping  at  him  savagely 
but  recoiling,  dizzy,  half  senseless  under  another  blow 
so  terrific  that  it  almost  nauseated  him. 

He  stood  for  a  time,  supporting  himself  against  a 
tree ;  then  as  his  wits  returned  he  lifted  his  bruised  face 
and  stared  murderously  about  him.  Quarren  was  walk 
ing  toward  Witch-Hollow — half  way  there  already  and 
out  of  earshot  as  well  as  sight. 

417 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

Against  the  stars  something  moved  on  a  near  hill 
top,  and  Sprowl  reeled  forward  in  pursuit,  breaking 
into  a  heavy  and  steady  run  as  the  thing  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.  But  he  had  seen  it  move,  just  beyond 
that  fence,  and  he  seized  the  top  rail  and  got  over  and 
ran  forward  in  the  darkness,  clutching  his  stick  and 
calling  to  Quarren  by  name. 

Where  had  he  gone?  He  halted  to  listen,  peering 
around  with  swollen  eyes.  Blood  dripped  from  his  lips 
and  cheek ;  he  passed  his  hand  over  them,  glaring,  listen 
ing.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  dull  sound  close  behind  him 
in  the  night ;  whirled  to  confront  what  was  coming  with 
an  unseen  rush,  thundering  down  on  him,  shaking  the 
very  ground. 

He  made  no  outcry ;  there  was  no  escape,  noth 
ing  to  do  but  to  strike;  and  he  struck  with  every 
atom  of  his  strength;  and  went  crashing  down  into 
darkness.  And  over  his  battered  body  bellowed  and 
raged  the  bull. 

Even  the  men  who  found  them  there  in  the  morn 
ing  could  scarcely  drive  away  the  half -crazed  brute. 
And  the  little  daughter  of  the  gardener,  who  had  dis 
covered  what  was  there  in  the  pasture,  cowered  in  the 
fence  corner,  crying  her  heart  out  for  her  father's  dead 
master  who  had  spoken  kindly  to  her  since  she  had  grown 
up  and  who  had  even  taken  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  the  day  before  when  she  had  brought  him  a  rare  or 
chid  from  the  greenhouse. 

Every  newspaper  in  America  gave  up  the  right- 
hand  columns  to  huge  headlines  and  an  account  of  the 
tragedy  at  South  Linden.  Every  paper  in  the  world 

418 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

chronicled  it.  There  were  few  richer  men  in  the  world 
than  Langly  Sprowl.  The  tragedy  moved  everybody 
in  various  ways;  stocks,  however,  did  not  move  either 
way  to  the  surprise  of  everybody.  On  second  thoughts, 
however,  the  world  realised  that  his  wealth  had  been  too 
solidly  invested  to  cause  a  flurry.  Besides  he  had  a 
younger  brother  financing  something  or  other  for  the 
Emperor  of  China.  Now  he  would  return.  The  great 
race  would  not  become  extinct. 

That  night  Quarren  went  back  to  the  Wycherlys  and 
found  Molly  waiting  for  him  in  the  library. 

"  What  on  earth  did  Mary  Ledwith  want  of  Jim 
this  evening  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Sprowl  was  in  the  house." 

"  What !  " 

"  That's  why  the  poor  child  telephoned.  She  was 
probably  afraid  of  him,  and  wanted  Jim  there." 

Molly's  teeth  clicked  : 

"  Jim  would  have  half-killed  him.  It's  probably  a 
good  thing  he  was  in  town.  What  did  you  do?  " 

"  Nothing.     Sprowl  went  all  right." 

"  What  did  Mary  say  to  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  her." 

"You  didn't  see  her?" 

"  No." 

Molly's  eyes  grew  rounder : 

"  Where  is  Chester  Ledwith  ?  He  didn't  go  with 
you  into  the  house,  did  he?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did." 

"  But  where  is  he?  You — you  don't  mean  to 
say " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  He  went  upstairs  and  didn't  re- 
419 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

turn.  ...  So  I  waited  for  a  while  and  then — came 
back." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  while,  then  Molly  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his  and  they  were  brimming  with  curiosity. 

"  If  they  become  reconciled,"  she  said,  "  how  are 
people  going  to  take  it,  Rix?  " 

"  Characteristically  I  suppose." 

"  You  mean  that  some  will  be  nasty  about  it?  " 

"  Some." 

"  But  then " 

"  Oh,  Molly,  Molly,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  there  are 
more  important  things  than  what  a  few  people  are  likely 
to  think  or  say.  The  girl  made  a  fool  of  herself,  and 
the  man.  weakened  and  nearly  went  to  pieces.  He's  found 
himself  again ;  he's  disposed  to  help  her  find  herself.  It 
was  only  one  of  those  messes  that  the  papers  report 
every  day.  Few  get  out  of  such  pickles,  but  I  believe 
these  two  are  going  to.  .  .  .  And  somehow,  do  you 
know — from  something  Sprowl  said  to-night,  I  don't 
believe  that  she  went  the  entire  limit — took  the  last 
ditch." 

Molly  reddened:  "Why?" 

"  Because,  although  they  do  it  in  popular  fiction, 
men  like  Sprowl  never  really  boast  of  their  successes. 
His  sort  keep  silent — when  there's  anything  to  conceal." 

"Did  he  boast?" 

"  He  did.  I  was  sure  he  was  lying,  and  I — "  he 
shrugged. 

"Told  him  so?" 

"Well,  something   of  that   sort." 

"  I  believe  he  was  lying,  too.  ...  It  was  just  like 
that  romantic  little  fool  to  run  off  to  Reno  after  noth 
ing  worse  than  the  imprudence  of  infatuation.  I've 

420 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 

known  her  a  long  while,  Rix.  She's  too  shallow  for  real 
passion,  too  selfish  to  indulge  it  anyway.  His  name  and 
fortune  did  the  business  for  her — little  idiot.  Really 
she  annoys  me." 

Quarren  smiled :  "  Her  late  husband  seems  to  like 
her.  Fools  feminine  have  made  many  a  man  happy. 
You'll  be  nice  to  her  I'm  sure." 

"  Of  course.  .  .  .  Everybody  will  on  Mrs.  Sprowl's 
account." 

Quarren  laughed  again,  then : 

"  Meanwhile  this  Ledwith  business  has  prevented  my 
talking  to  Strelsa  over  the  telephone,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Rix !  You  said  you  were  going  to  surprise 
her  in  the  morning !  " 

"  But  I  want  to  see  her,  Molly.  I  don't  want  to 
wait " 

"  It's  after  ten  and  Strelsa  has  probably  retired. 
She's  a  perfect  farmer,  I  tell  you — yawns  horribly  every 
evening  at  nine.  Why,  I  can't  keep  her  awake  long 
enough  to  play  a  hand  at  Chinese  Khan !  Be  reasonable, 
Rix.  You  had  planned  to  surprise  her  in  the  morning. 
.  .  .  And — I'm  lonely  without  Jim.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  you 
are  clever  enough  to  burst  upon  Strelsa's  view  in  the 
morning  when  the  day  is  young  and  all  before  her,  and 
when  she's  looking  her  very  best,  nobody  can  tell  what 
might  happen.  .  .  .  And  I'll  whisper  in  your  ear  that 
the  child  has  really  missed  you.  .  .  .  But  don't  be  in 
a  hurry  with  her,  will  you,  Rix?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  absently. 

Molly  picked  up  her  knitting.   • 

"  If  Chester  Ledwith  doesn't  return  by  twelve  I'm 
going  to  have  the  house  locked,"  she  said,  stifling  a 
yawn. 


THE    STREETS    OF    ASCALON 


At  twelve  o'clock  the  house  was  accordingly  locked 
for  the  night. 

"  It's  enough  to  compromise  her,"  said  Molly, 
crossly.  "  What  a  pair  of  fools  they  are." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

STRELSA,  a  pink  apron  pinned  about  her,  a  trowel 
in  her  gloved  hand,  stood  superintending  the  transplant 
ing  of  some  purple  asters  which  not  very  difficult  ex 
ploit  was  being  attempted  by  a  local  yokel  acting  as 
her  "  hired  man." 

The  garden,  a  big  one  with  a  wall  fronting  the 
road,  ran  back  all  the  way  to  the  terrace  in  the 
rear  of  the  house  beyond  which  stretched  the  western 
veranda. 

And  it  was  out  on  this  veranda  that  Quarren  stepped 
in  the  wake  of  Strelsa's  maid,  and  from  there  he  caught 
his  first  view  of  Strelsa's  garden,  and  of  Strelsa  her 
self,  fully  armed  and  caparisoned  for  the  perennial  fray 
with  old  Dame  Nature. 

"  You  need  not  go  down  there  to  announce  me," 
he  said ;  "  I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Leeds  myself." 

But  before  he  could  move,  Strelsa,  happening  to  turn 
around,  saw  him  on  the  veranda,  gazed  at  him  incredu 
lously  for  a  moment,  then  brandished  her  trowel  with  a 
clear,  distant  cry  of  greeting,  and  came  toward  him, 
laughing  in  her  excitement  and  surprise.  They  met 
midway,  and  she  whipped  off  her  glove  and  gave  him 
her  hand  in  a  firm,  cool  clasp. 

"  Why  the  dickens  didn't  you  wire ! "  she  said. 
"  You're  a  fraud,  Rix !  I  might  easily  have  been 
away ! —  You  might  have  missed  me — we  might  have 

423 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

missed  each  other.  ...  Is  that  all  you  care  about  see 
ing  me  ? — after  all  these  weeks !  " 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,"  he  explained  feebly. 

"  Well,  you  didn't !  That  is— not  much.  I'd  been 
thinking  of  you — and  I  glanced  up  and  saw  you.  You're 
stopping  at  Molly's  I  suppose." 

"  Yes." 

"When  did  you  arrive?" 

"L-last  night,"  he  admitted. 

"  What !  And  didn't  call  me  up !  I  refuse  to  believe 
it  of  you !  " 

She  really  seemed  indignant,  and  he  followed  her 
into  the  pretty  house  where  presently  she  became  slightly 
mollified  by  his  exuberant  admiration  of  the  place. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  she  said.  "Do  you  really 
think  it  so  pretty?  If  you  do  I'll  take  you  upstairs 
and  show  you  my  room,  and  the  three  beautiful  spick 
and  span  guest  rooms.  But  you'll  never  occupy  one !  " 
she  added,  still  wrathful  at  his  apparent  neglect  of  her. 
" 1  don't  want  anybody  here  who  isn't  perfectly  devoted 
to  me.  And  it's  very  plain  that  you  are  not." 

He  mildly  insisted  that  he  was  but  she  denied  it, 
hotly. 

"  And  I  shall  never  get  over  it,"  she  added.  "  But 
you  may  come  upstairs  and  see  what  you  have  missed." 

They  went  over  the  renovated  house  thoroughly ; 
she,  secretly  enchanted  at  his  admiration  and  praise  of 
everything,  pointed  out  any  object  that  seemed  to  have 
escaped  his  attention  merely  to  hear  him  approve  it. 
Finally  she  relented. 

"  You  are  satisfactory,"  she  said  as  they  returned 
to  the  front  veranda  and  seated  themselves.  "  And 
really,  Rix,  I'm  so  terribly  glad  to  see  you  that  I  for- 


"'I  wanted  to  surprise 


you,'  he  explained  feebly." 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

give  your  neglect.  .  .  .  Are  you  well?  You  don't  look 
very  well,"  she  added  earnestly.  "  Why  are  you  so 
white?" 

"  I'm  in  fine  shape,  thank  you." 

"  I  didn't  mean  your  figure,"  she  laughed — "  Oh, 
that  was  a  common  kind  of  a  joke,  wasn't  it?     But  I'm 
only  a  farmer,  Rix.     You  must  expect  the  ruder  and 
simpler  forms  of  speech  from  a  lady  of  the  woodshed!  * 
.  .   .  Why  are  you  so  pale?  " 

"Do  I  seem  particularly  underdone?" 

"  That's  horrid,  too.  Are  you  and  I  going  to 
degenerate  just  because  you  work  for  a  living?  You 
are  unusually  thin,  anyway ;  and  the  New  York  pal 
lor  is  very  noticeable.  Will  you  stay  and  get  sun 
burnt?  " 

"  I  could  stay  a  few  days." 

"How  many?" 

"  How  many  do  you  want  me  ?  Two  whole  days, 
Strelsa?" 

She  laughed  at  him,  then  looked  at  him  a  trifle  shyly, 
but  laughed  again  as  she  answered: 

"  I  want  you  to  stay  always,  of  course.  Don't  pre 
tend  that  you  don't  know  it,  because  you  are  perfectly 
aware  that  I  never  tire  of  you.  But  if  you  can  stay 
only  two  days  don't  let  us  waste  any  time " 

"We're  not  wasting  it  here  together,  are  we?" 

"  Don't  you  want  to  walk  ?  I  haven't  a  horse  yet, 
except  for  agricultural  purposes.  I'll  rinse  my  hands 
and  take  off  this  apron — "  She  stood  unpinning  and 
untying  it,  her  gray  eyes  never  leaving  him  in  their 
unabashed  delight  in  him. 

Then  she  disappeared  for  a  few  minutes  only  to 
reappear  wearing  a  pair  of  stout  little  shoes  and  carry- 

425 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

ing  a  walking-stick  which  she  said  she  used  in  rough 
country. 

And  first  they  visited  her  garden  where  all  the  old- 
fashioned  autumn  flowers  were  in  riotous  bloom — scar 
let  sage,  rockets,  thickets  of  gladiolus,  heavy  borders 
of  asters,  marigolds,  and  coreopsis ;  and  here  she  gave 
a  few  verbal  directions  to  the  yokel  who  gaped  tooth 
lessly  in  reply. 

After  that,  side  by  side,  they  swung  off  together 
across  the  hill,  she,  lithe  and  slender,  setting  the  springy 
pace  and  twirling  her  walking-stick,  he,  less  accustomed 
to  the  open  and  more  so  to  the  smooth  hot  streets  of  the 
city,  slackening  pace  first. 

She  chided  and  derided  him  and  bantered  him  scorn 
fully,  then  with  sudden  sweet  concern  halted,  reproach 
ing  herself  for  setting  too  hot  a  pace  for  a  city-worn 
and  work-worn  man. 

But  the  cool  shadows  of  the  woods  were  near,  and 
she  made  him  rest  on  the  little  footbridge — the  same 
bridge  where  he  had  encountered  Ledwith  for  the  first 
time  in  years.  He  recognised  the  spot. 

After  they  had  seated  themselves  and  Strelsa,  rest 
ing  on  the  back  of  the  bridge  seat,  was  contentedly  dab 
bling  in  the  stream  with  her  cane,  Quarren  said,  slowly : 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  did  not  disturb  you  last 
night,  Strelsa?" 

"  You  can't  excuse  it " 

"  You  shall  be  judge  and  jury.  It's  rather  a  long 
story,  though 

"  I  am  listening." 

"  Then,  it  has  to  do  with  Ledwith.  He's  not  very 
well  but  he's  better  than  he  was.  You  see  he  wanted  to 
take  a  course  of  treatment  to  regain  his  health,  and 

426 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

there  seemed  to  be  nobody  else,  so — I  offered  to  see  him 
through." 

"  That's   like  you,  Rix,"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  anything — I  had  nothing  to  do — 

"  That's  like  you,  too.     Did  you  pull  him  through?  " 

"  He  pulled  himself  through.  ...  It  was  strenu 
ous  for  two  or  three  days — and  hot  as  the  devil  in  that 
sanitarium."  .  .  .  He  laughed.  "  We  both  were  wrecks 
when  we  came  out  two  weeks  later — oh,  a  bit  groggy, 
that's  really  all.  .  .  .  And  he  had  no  place  to  go — and 
seemed  to  be  inclined  to  keep  hold  of  my  sleeve — so  I 
telephoned  Molly.  And  she  said  to  bring  him  up.  That 
was  nice  of  her,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Everybody    is   wonderful   except   you,"    she   said. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  "  it  wasn't  I  who  went  through 
a  modified  hell.  He's  got  a  lot  of  backbone,  Ledwith. 
.  .  .  And  so  we  came  up  last  night.  .  .  .  And — now 
here's  the  interesting  part,  Strelsa !  We  strolled  over  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Ledwith " 

"What!" 

"Certainly.  I  myself  didn't  see  her  but — "  he 
laughed — "  she  seemed  to  be  at  home  to  her  ex-hus 
band." 

"Rix!" 

"  It's  a  fact.  He  went  back  there  for  breakfast  this 
morning  after  he'd  changed  his  clothes." 

"After— what?" 

"  Yes.  It  seems  that  they  started  out  in  a  canoe 
about  midnight  and  he  didn't  turn  up  at  Witch-Hollow 
until  just  before  breakfast — and  then  he  only  stayed 
long  enough  to  change  to  boating  flannels.  .  .  .  You 
should  see  him  ;  he's  twenty  years  younger.  ...  I  fancy 
they'll  get  along  together  in  future." 

427 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  Oh,  Rix !  "  she  said,  "  that  was  darling  of  you ! 
You  are  wonderful  even  if  you  don't  seem  to  know  it! 
.  .  .  And  to  think — to  think  that  Mary  Ledwith  is 
going  to  be  happy  again !  .  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know  how 
it  has  been  with  her — the  silly,  unhappy  little  thing! 

"  Why,  after  Mrs.  Sprowl  left,  the  girl  went  all  to 
pieces.  Molly  and  I  did  what  we  could — but  Molly 
isn't  strong  and  Mrs.  Ledwith  was  at  my  house  almost 
all  the  time —  Oh,  it  was  quite  dreadful,  and  I'm  sure 
she  was  really  losing  her  senses — because — I  think  I'll 
tell  you — I  tell  you  everything — "  She  hesitated,  and 
then,  lowering  her  voice : 

"  She  had  come  to  see  me,  and  she  was  lying  on 
the  lounge  in  my  dressing-room,  crying;  and  I  was 
doing  my  hair.  And  first  I  knew  she  sobbed  out  that 
she  had  killed  her  husband  and  wanted  to  die,  and  she 
caught  up  that  pistol  that  Sir  Charles  gave  me  at  the 
Bazaar  last  winter — it  looked  like  a  real  one — and  the 
next  thing  I  knew  she  had  fired  a  charge  of  Japanese 
perfume  at  her  temple,  and  it  was  all  over  her  face  and 
hair  !  .  .  .  Don't  laugh,  Rix ;  she  thought  she  had  killed 
herself,  and  I  had  a  horrid,  messy  time  of  it  reviving 
her." 

"  You  poor  child,"  he  exclaimed  trying  not  to 
laugh — "  she  had  no  brains  to  blow  out  anyway.  .  .  . 
That's  a  low  thing  to  say.  Ledwith  likes  her.  ...  I 
really  believe  she's  been  scared  into  life-long  good  be 
haviour." 

"  She  wasn't — really — horrid,"  said  Strelsa  in  a  low 
voice.  "  She  told  me  so." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  he  said.  "  But  one  way  or  the 
other  you  might  as  well  reproach  a  humming-bird  for 
its  morals.  There  are  such  people." 

428 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

After  a  short  silence  she  said : 

"  Tell  me  about  people  in  town." 

"  There  are  few  there.  Besides,"  he  added  smil 
ingly,  "  I  don't  see  much  of  your  sort  of  people." 

"  My  sort?"  she  repeated,  lifting  her  gray  eyes. 
"  Am  I  not  your  sort,  Rix?  " 

"  Are  you  ?  You  should  see  me  in  my  overalls  and 
shirt-sleeves,  stained  with  solvents  and  varnish,  sticky 
with  glue  and  reeking  turpentine,  ironing  out  a  can- 
.vas  with  a  warm  flat-iron!  .  .  .  Am  I  your  kind, 
Strelsa?" 

"  Yes.   .   .   .  Am  I  your  kind  ?  " 

"  You  always  were.     You  know  that." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know  it,  now."  She  sat  very  still,  hands 
folded,  considering  him  with  gray  and  speculative 
eyes. 

"  From  the  very  beginning,"  she  said,  "  you  have 
never  once  disappointed  me." 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"  Never,"  she  repeated. 

"  Why — why,  I  got  in  wrong  the  very  first  time !  " 
he  said. 

"  You  mean  that  wager  we  made?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  you  behaved  like  a  good  sportsman." 

"  Well,  I  wasn't  exactly  a  bounder.  But  you  were 
annoyed." 

She  smiled:  "Was  I?" 

"  You  seemed  to  be." 

"  Yet  I  sat  in  a  corner  behind  some  palms  with  you 
until  daylight." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  over  the 
reminiscence.  Then  he  said: 

429 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  did  disappoint  you  when  you  found  out  what  sort 
of  a  man  I  was." 

"  No,  you  didn't." 

"  I  proved  it,  too,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Her  lips  were  set  firmly,  almost  primly,  but  she 
blushed. 

"You  meant  to  be  nice  to  me,"  she  said.  "You 
meant  to  do  me  honour." 

"  The  honour  of  offering  you  such  a  man  as  I  was," 
he  said  with  smiling  bitterness. 

"Rix!  /  was  the  fool— the  silly  little  prig!  I 
have  blushed  and  blushed  to  remember  how  I  behaved; 
how  I  snubbed  you  and — good  heavens ! — even  lectured 
and  admonished  you ! — How  I  ran  away  from  you  with 
all  the  self-possession  and  savoir-faire  of  a  country 
schoolgirl !  What  on  earth  you  thought  of  me  in  those 
days  I  dread  to  surmise " 

"  But  Strelsa,  what  was  there  to  do  except  what  you 
did?  " 

"  If  I'd  known  anything  I  could  have  thanked  you 
for  caring  that  way  for  me  and  dismissed  you  as  a  friend 
instead  of  fleeing  as  though  you  had  affronted  me " 

"  I  did  affront  you." 

"  You  didn't  intend  to.  ...  It  would  have  been  easy 
enough  to  tell  you  that  I  liked  you — but  not  that  way. 
.  .  .  And  all  those  miserable,  lonely,  unhappy  months 
could  have  been  spared  me " 

"  Were  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"  I  never  dreamed  you  were." 

"  Well,  I  was — thinking  of  what  I  had  done  to  you. 
.  .  .  And  all  those  men  bothering  me  every  moment,  and 
everybody  at  me  to  marry  everybody  else — and  all  I 

430 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

wanted  was  to  be  friends  with  you!  ...  I  wasn't  sure 
of  what  I  wanted  from  the  very  beginning,  of  course, 
but  I  knew  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  at  the  Bazaar  again. 
...  I  was  so  lonely,  Rix " 

She  looked  up  out  of  clear,  fearless  eyes ;  he  leaned 
forward  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  I  know  what  you  want,"  he  said  quietly.  "  You 
want  my  friendship  and  you  have  it — every  atom  of  it, 
Strelsa.  I  will  never  overstep  the  borders  again ;  I  un 
derstand  you  thoroughly.  .  .  .  You  know  what  you 
have  done  for  me — what  I  was  when  you  came  into  my 
life.  My  gratitude  is  a  living  thing.  Through  you, 
because  of  you,  the  whole  unknown  world — all  of  real 
life — has  opened  before  me.  You  did  it  for  me,  Strelsa." 

"  You  did  it  for  yourself  and  for  me,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice.  "What  are  you  trying  to  tell  me,  Rix? 
That  /  did  this  for  you?  When  it  is  you — it  was  you 
from  the  first — it  has  always  been  you  who  led,  who 
awakened  first,  who  showed  courage  and  common  sense 
and  patience  and  the  cheerful  wisdom  which — which 
saved  me " 

The  emotion  in  her  voice  stirred  him  thrillingly ; 
her  hands  lay  confidently  in  his ;  her  gray  eyes  met 
his  so  sweetly,  so  honestly,  that  hope  awoke  for  a 
moment. 

"  Strelsa,"  he  said,  "  however  it  was  with  us — how 
ever  it  is  now,  I  think  that  together  we  amount  to  more 
than  we  ever  could  have  amounted  to  apart." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said  fervently.  "  I  was  nothing 
until  I  began  to  comprehend  you." 

"  What  was  I  before  you  awoke  me?  " 

"  A  man  neglecting  his  nobler  self.  .  .  .  But  it 
could  not  have  lasted ;  your  real  self  could  not  have  long 

431 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

endured  that  harlequinade  we  once  thought  was  real  life. 
.  .  .  I'm  glad  if  you  think  that  I — something  about  me 
— aroused  you.  .  .  .  But  if  I  had  not,  somebody  or 
some  circumstance  would  have  very  soon  served  the  same 
purpose." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  he  said,  stooping  to  kiss  her 
hands.  She  looked  at  him  while  he  did  so,  confused  by 
the  quick  pleasure  of  the  contact,  then  schooled  herself 
to  endure  it,  setting  her  lips  in  a  grave,  firm  line. 

And  it  wras  a  most  serious  face  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
as  she  quietly  withdrew  her  fingers  from  his. 

"  You  always  played  the  courtier  to  perfection," 
she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "  Tell  me  about  that 
accomplished  and  noble  peer,  Lord  Dankmere.  Are  you 
still  inclined  to  like  him?  " 

He  accepted  her  light  and  careless  change  of  tone 
instantly,  and  spoke  laughingly  of  Dankmere : 

"  He's  really  a  mighty  nice  fellow,  Strelsa.  Any 
way,  I  like  him.  And  what  do  you  think  his  lordship 
has  been  and  gone  and  done  ?  " 

"  Has  he  become  a  Russian  dancer,  Rix?  " 

"  No,  bless  his  heart !  He's  fallen  head  over  ears 
in  love  and  is  engaged  and  is  going  to  marry !  " 

"Who?" 

"  Our  stenographer  !  " 

"  Rix !  " 

"  Certainly.  .  .  .  She's  pretty  and  sweet  and  good 
and  most  worthy ;  and  she's  as  crazy  about  Dankmere 
as  he  is  about  her.  .  .  .  Really,  Strelsa,  she's  a  charm 
ing  young  girl,  and  she'll  make  as  pretty  a  countess 
as  any  of  the  Dankmeres  have  married  in  many  a  gen 
eration." 

Strelsa's  lip  curled:  "I  don't  doubt  that.  They 
432 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

were  always  a  horrid  cock-fighting,  prize-fighting,  dis 
solute  lot,  weren't  they  ?  " 

"  Something  like  that.  But  the  present  Dankmere 
is  a  good  sort — really  he  is,  Strelsa.  And  as  for  Jes 
sie  Vining,  she's  sweet.  You'll  be  nice  to  them,  won't 
you?" 

She  said :  "  I'd  be  nice  to  them  anyway.  But  now 
that  you  ask  me  to  I'll  be  whatever  you  wish." 

"  You  are  a  corker,"  he  said  almost  tenderly ;  but 
with  a  slight  smile  she  kept  her  hands  out  of  his  reach. 

"  We  mustn't  degenerate  into  sentimentalism  just 
because  we're  glad  to  see  each  other,"  she  said  so  calmly 
that  he  did  not  notice  the  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  And 
by  the  way,  how  is  Mr.  Westguard?  " 

They  both  laughed. 

"  Speaking  of  sentiment,"  said  Quarren,  "  Karl  now 
exudes  it  daily.  He  and  Bleecker  De  Groot  and  Mrs. 
Caldera — to  Lester's  rage — have  started  a  weekly  paper 
called  Brotherhood,  consisting  of  pabulum  for  the 
horny-handed. 

"  I  couldn't  do  anything  with  Karl.  Just  look  at 
him !  He's  really  a  good  story-teller  if  he  chooses.  He 
could  write  jolly-good  novels  if  he  would.  But  the  spec 
tacle  of  De  Groot  weeping  over  a  Bowery  audience  has 
finished  him;  and  he's  hard  at  work  on  a  volume  called 
'  The  World's  Woe,'  and  means  to  publish  it  himself 
because  no  publisher  will  take  it." 

"  Poor  Karl,"   she   said,  smiling. 

"  No,"  said  Quarren,  "  that's  the  worst  of  it.  His 
aunt  has  settled  a  million  on  him.  ...  I  tell  you,  Strelsa, 
the  rich  convert  has  less  honour  among  the  poor  than 
the  dingiest  little  '  dip  '  among  the  gorgeous  corsairs 
of  Wall  Street. 

433 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  happens,  but  Christ  was  never 
yet  successfully  preached  from  Fifth  Avenue,  and  the 
millionaire  whose  heart  bleeds  for  the  poor  needs  a 
sterner  surgeon  than  a  complacent  conscience  to  really 
stop  the  hemorrhage." 

"  Rich  men  do  good,  Rix,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"  But  not  by  teaching  or  practising  the  thrift  of 
celestial  insurance — not  by  admonition  to  orthodoxy  and 
exhortation  to  worship  a  Creator  who  sees  to  it  that  no 
two  people  are  created  equal.  There  is  only  one  thing 
the  rich  can  give  to  the  poor  for  Christ's  sake;  and 
even  that  will  always  be  taken  with  suspicion  and  dis 
trust.  No;  there  are  only  two  ways  to  live:  one  is  the 
life  of  self-discipline;  the  other  is  to  actually  imitate 
the  militant  Son  of  Man  whose  faith  we  pretend  to  pro 
fess — but  whose  life-history  we  merely  parody,  turning 
His  crusade  into  a  grotesque  carnival.  I  know  of  no 
third  course  consistent." 

"  To  lead  an  upright  life  within  bounds  where  your 
lines  have  fallen,  or  to  strip  and  go  forth  militant,"  she 
mused.  "  There  is  no  third  course,  as  you  say.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know,  Rix,  that  I  have  become  a  wonderfully 
happy  sort  of  person  ?  " 

"  So  have  I,"  he  said,  laughingly. 

"  It's  just  because  we  have  something  to  do,  isn't 
it?" 

"  That — and  the  leisure  which  the  idle  never  have. 
It  seems  like  a  paradox,  doesn't  it? — to  say  that  the  idle 
never  have  any  time  to  themselves." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  expect  to  work  rather 
hard  the  rest  of  my  life,"  she  said  seriously,  "  and  yet 
I  can  foresee  lots  and  lots  of  most  delicious  leisure 
awaiting  me." 

434 


THE   STREETS   OF  ASCALON 

"  Do  you  foresee  anything  else,  pretty  prophetess  ?  " 

"  What  else  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  example,  you  will  be  alone  here  all 
winter." 

"  Do  you  mean  loneliness  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling.  "  I 
don't  expect  to  suffer  from  that.  Molly  will  be  here 
all  winter  and — you  will  write  to  me — "  she  turned 
to  him — "  won't  you,  Rix  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  Besides  I'm  coming  up  to  see  you  every 
week." 

"  Every  week !  "  she  repeated,  taken  a  little  aback 
but  smiling  her  sweet,  confused  smile.  "  Do  you  realise 
what  you  are  so  gaily  engaging  to  do  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.     I'm  going  to  build  up  here." 

"What!" 

"  Of  course." 

"A— a  house?" 

He  looked  at  her,  hesitated,  then  looking  away: 

"  Either  a  house  or — an  addition." 

"  An  addition?  " 

"  If  you'll  let  me,  Strelsa — some  day." 

She  understood  him  then.  The  painful  colour  stole 
into  her  cheeks,  faintly  burning,  and  she  closed  her 
eyes  for  a  moment  to  endure  it,  sitting  silent,  motion 
less,  her  little  sun-tanned  hands  tightly  clasped  on  her 
knees. 

Then,  unclosing  her  eyes  she  looked  at  him,  delicate 
lips  tightening. 

"  I  thought  our  relations  were  to  remain  on  a  higher 
plane,"  she  said  steadily. 

"  Our  relations  are  to  remain  what  you  desire  them 
to  be,  dear." 

"  I  desire  them  to  be  what  they  are — always" 
435 


THE   STREETS   OF   ASCALON 

"  Then  that  is  my  wish  also,"  he  said  with  a  smile 
so  genuine  and  gay  that,  a  little  confused  by  his  acqui 
escence,  her  own  response  was  slow.  But  presently  her 
smile  dawned,  a  little  tremulous  and  uncertain,  and  her 
gray  eyes  remained  wistful  though  the  lips  curled  de- 
liciously. 

"  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  Rix, 
except — that,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  know  you  would,  you  dear  girl." 

"  Don't  you  really  believe  it?  " 

"Of  course  I  do !  " 

"  But — I  can't  do  that — ever.  It  would — would 
spoil  you  for  me.  .  .  .  What  in  the  world  would  I 
do  if  you  were  spoiled  for  me,  Rix  ?  I  haven't  anybody 
else.  .  .  .  What  would  I  do  here — all  alone  ?  I  couldn't 
stay — I  wouldn't  know  what  to  do — where  to  go  in  the 
world.  ...  It  would  be  lonely — lonely "  , 

She  bent  her  head,  and  remained  so,  gray  eyes 
fixed  on  her  clasped  fingers.  For  a  long  while  she 
sat  bowed  over,  thinking;  once  or  twice  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  look  at  him,  but  her  gaze  always  became 
confused  and  remote;  and  he  did  not  offer  to  break 
the  silence. 

At  last  she  looked  up  with  a  movement  of  decision, 
her  face  clearing. 

"You  understand,  don't  you,  Rix?"  she  said, 
rising. 

He  nodded,  rising  also ;  and  they  descended  the  steps 
together  and  walked  slowly  away  toward  Witch-Hol 
low. 

From  the  hill-top  they  noticed  one  of  Sprowl's  farm- 
waggons  slowly  entering  the  drive,  followed  on  foot  by 
several  men  and  a  little  girl.  Her  blond  hair  and  apron 

436 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

fluttered  in  the  breeze.     She  was  too  far  away  for  them 
to  see  that  she  was  weeping. 

"  I  wonder  what  they've  got  in  that  waggon  ?  "  said 
Quarren,  curiously. 

Strelsa's  gaze  became  indifferent,  then  passed  on  and 
rested  on  the  blue  range  of  hills  beyond. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  about  Chrysos,"  she  said. 

"  The  quaint  little  thing,"  he  said  almost  tenderly. 
"  She  told  Molly  what  happened — how  she  sat  down 
under  a  fence  to  tie  wild  strawberries  for  Sir  Charles, 
and  how,  all  at  once,  she  realised  what  his  going  out  of 
her  life  meant  to  her — and  how  the  tears  choked  her  to 
silence  until  she  suddenly  found  herself  in  his  arms. 
.  .  .  Can  you  see  it  as  it  happened,  Strelsa? — as  pretty 
a  pastoral  as  ever  the  older  poets — "  He  broke  off 
abruptly,  and  she  looked  up,  but  he  was  still  smiling  as 
though  the  scene  of  another  man's  happiness,  so  lightly 
evoked,  were  a  visualisation  of  his  own.  And  again  her 
gray  eyes  grew  wistful  as  though  shyly  pleading  for  his 
indulgence  and  silently  asking  his  pardon  for  all  that 
she  could  never  be  to  him  or  to  any  man. 

So  they  came  across  fields  and  down  through  fra 
grant  lanes  to  Witch-Hollow,  where  the  fat  setter  gam 
bolled  ponderously  around  them  with  fat  barkings  and 
waggings,  and  where  Molly,  sewing  on  the  porch, 
smoothed  the  frail  and  tiny  garment  over  her  knee  and 
raised  her  pretty  head  to  survey  them  with  a  smiling 
intelligence  that  made  Strelsa  blush. 

"  It  isn't  so !  "  she  found  an  opportunity  to  whisper 
into  Molly's  ear.  "  If  you  look  at  us  that  way  you'll 
simply  make  him  miserable  and  break  my  heart." 

Molly  glanced  after  Quarren  who  had  wandered  in 
doors  to  find  a  cigarette  in  the  smoking-room. 

437 


THE   STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  If  you  don't  marry  that  delectable  young  man," 
she  said,  "  I'll  take  a  stick  and  beat  you,  Strelsa." 

"  I  don't  want  to — I  don't  want  to !  "  protested  the 
girl,  getting  possession  of  Molly's  hands  and  covering 
them  with  caresses.  And,  resting  her  soft  lips  on 
Molly's  fingers,  she  looked  at  her;  and  the  young  ma 
tron  saw  tears  glimmering  under  the  soft,  dark  lashes. 

"  I  can't  love  him — that  way,"  whispered  the  girl. 
"  I  would  if  I  could.  ...  I  couldn't  care  for  him  more 
than  I  do.  .  .  .  And — and  it  terrifies  me  to  think  of 
losing  him." 

"  Losing  him?  " 

"  Yes — by  doing  what  you — what  he — wishes." 

"  You  think  you'll  lose  him  if  you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  I — yes.  It  would  spoil  him  for  me — spoil  every 
thing  for  me  in  the  world " 

"  Well,  you  listen  to  me,"  said  Molly,  exasperated. 
"  When  he  has  stood  a  certain  amount  of  this  silliness 
from  you  he'll  really  and  actually  turn  into  the  sexless 
comrade  you  think  you  want.  But  he'll  go  elsewhere 
for  a  mate.  There  are  plenty  suitable  in  the  world. 
If  you'd  never  been  born  there  would  have  been  another 
for  him.  If  you  passed  out  of  his  life  there  would  some 
day  be  another. 

"  Will  we  women  never  learn  the  truth  ? — that  at  best 
we  are  incidental  to  man,  but  that,  when  we  love,  man 
is  the  whole  bally  thing  to  us? 

"  Let  him  escape  and  you'll  see,  Strelsa.  You'll  get, 
perhaps,  what  you're  asking  for  now,  but  he'll  get  what 
he  is  asking  for,  too — if  not  from  you,  from  some  girl 
of  whom  you  and  I  and  he  perhaps  have  never  heard. 

"  But  she  exists ;  don't  worry.  And  any  man  worth 
his  title  is  certain  to  encounter  her  sooner  or  later." 

438 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

The  girl,  flushed,  dumb,  watched  her  out  of  wide 
gray  eyes  in  which  the  unshed  tears  had  dried.  The 
pretty  matron  slowly  shook  her  head : 

"  Because  you  once  bit  into  tainted  fruit  you  laid 
the  axe  to  the  entire  orchard.  What  nonsense !  Rotten 
ness  is  the  exception ;  soundness  the  rule.  But  you  con 
cluded  that  the  hazard  of  bad  fortune — that  the  un 
happy  chance  of  your  first  and  only  experience — was 
not  an  exception  but  the  universal  rule.  .  .  .  Very  well ; 
think  it !  He'll  get  over  it  some  time,  but  you  never  will, 
Strelsa.  You'll  remember  it  all  your  life. 

"  For  I  tell  you  that  we  women  who  go  to  our  graves 
without  having  missed  a  single  pang — we  who  die  hav 
ing  known  happiness  and  its  shadow  which  is  sorrow 
— the  happiness  and  sorrow  which  come  through  love 
of  man  alone — die  as  we  should  die,  in  deep  content  of 
destiny  fulfilled — which  is  the  only  peace  beyond  all  un 
derstanding." 

The  girl  lowered  her  head  and,  resting  her  cheek 
on  Molly's  shoulder,  looked  down  at  the  baby  garment 
on  her  knees. 

"  That  also?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Unless  we  pass  that  way,  also,  we  can 
never  die  content.  .  .  .  But  until  a  month  ago  I  did 
not  know  it.  ...  Strelsa — Strelsa!  Are  you  never 
going  to  know  what  love  can  be  ?  " 

The  girl  rose  slowly,  flushing  and  whitening  by 
turns,  and  stood  a  moment,  her  hands  covering  her  eyes. 

And  standing  so: 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  go  away — from  me — some 
day?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  will  go — unless " 

"Must  it  be— that  way?" 
439 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

"  It  will  be  that  way,  Strelsa." 

"  I  had  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Think  of  it  as  the  truth.  It  will  be  so  unless  you 
love  him  in  his  own  fashion — and  for  his  own  sake. 
Try — if  you  care  for  him  enough  to  try.  .  .  .  And  if 
you  do,  you  will  love  him  for  your  own  sake,  too." 

"  I — I  had  thought  of — of  giving  myself — for  his 
sake — because  he  wishes  it.  ...  I  don't  believe  I'll  be — 
much  afraid — of  him.  Do  you?  " 

Molly's  wise  sweet  eyes  sparkled  with  silent  laughter. 
Then  without  another  glance  at  the  tall,  young  girl  be 
fore  her  she  picked  up  her  sewing,  drew  the  needle  from 
the  hem,  and  smoothed  out  the  lace  embroidery  on  her 
knees. 

After  a  while  she  said: 

"  Jim's  returning  on  the  noon  train.  Will  you 
and  Rix  be  here  to  luncheon  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  ask  him ;  I  have  my  orders  to  give  if  you'll 
stay." 

Strelsa  walked  into  the  house;  Quarren,  still  hunt 
ing  about  for  a  cigarette,  looked  up  as  she  entered  the 
smoking-room. 

"  Where  the  dickens  does  Jim  keep  his  cigarettes?  " 
he  asked.  "  Do  you  know,  Strelsa?  " 

"  You  poor  boy !  "  she  exclaimed  laughingly,  "  have 
you  been  searching  all  this  time?  The  wonder  is  that 
you  haven't  perished.  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  for  one 
when  we  were  at — our  house?  " 

"  Your  house?  "  he  corrected,  smiling. 

Her  gray  eyes  met  his  with  a  frightened  sort  of 
courage. 

"  Our  house — if  you  wish — "  But  her  lips  had  be- 
440 


THE    STREETS    OF   ASCALON 

gun  to  tremble  and  she  could  not  control  them  or  force 
from  them  another  word  for  all  her  courage. 

He  came  over  to  where  she  stood,  one  slim  hand 
resting  against  the  wall;  and  she  looked  back  bravely 
into  his  keen  eyes — the  clear,  direct,  questioning  eyes  of 
a  boy. 

"  I — I  will — marry  you,"  she  said. 

A  swift  flush  touched  his  face  to  the  temples. 

"  Don't  you — want  me?  "  she  said,  tremulously. 

"  If  you  love  me,  Strelsa." 

"  Isn't  it  enough — that  you — love " 

"  No,  dear." 

She  lost  her  colour. 

"  Rix !     Don't  you  want  me?"  she  faltered. 

"  Not  unless  you  want  me,  Strelsa." 

She  drew  a  long  unsteady  breath.  Suddenly  the 
tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  and  she  held  out  both  hands 
to  him,  blindly. 

"  I — do  love  you,"  she  whispered.  ..."  I'll  give 
what  you  give.  .  .  .  Only  you  must  teach  me — not  to 
be— afraid." 

Her  cheek  lay  close  to  his  shoulder;  his  arms  drew 
her  nearer.  And,  after  he  had  waited  a  long  while,  her 
gray  eyes,  which  had  been  watching  his  face,  slowly 
closed,  and  she  lifted  her  lips  toward  his. 


THE    END 


(1) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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